


Gently

by DreamingAngelWolf



Category: Marvel, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 30 Days of Writing, AIM-butt kicking, Angst, Anxiety, Birthday, Bucky Bear cameo, CLINTUCKY, Domestic, Feels, Fluff, HYDRA-butt kicking, Hold on to your heartstrings, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Romance, Sniper bros!, Tony Stark doesn't know when to keep his nose out of things, deaf!Clint, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-27 01:27:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 29,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreamingAngelWolf/pseuds/DreamingAngelWolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Take one ex-circus, world's greatest archer, and one ex-Soviet, world's deadliest assassin, mix them both together amidst a team often described by some as the greatest group of misfits to have ever saved the world, throw in a box of tissues (just in case), and stand well back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome Ba-

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first 30 day challenge! And it's Winterhawk! (Always Winterhawk, because Clintucky... it sounds weird...)
> 
> There is a main storyline to all of this which will be outlined in the first chapter; after that, chronology takes a walk, and you'll soon see why ;-) I'm not really putting much of a timeline on this because, really, it only takes place over a matter of hours. 
> 
> So - I'm not doing this alone. I need prompts, people! Domestic, fluffy, angsty, whumpy, generally make you giggle prompts (no, I will not write smut! At least, not graphic smut...), so if there's something you want to see happen to the boys, head over to my [Tumblr](http://dreamingangelwolf.tumblr.com/) and look for the little button that says "Prompt me, maybe...?" to drop me a line! If that isn't possible, you can also get to me here or on FanFiction.
> 
> Other than that, here's some Winterhawk for you to enjoy - and, apologies if anyone feels they've been slightly deceived...

When Clint finally shot the last arrow of the battle into the side of the last lizard-man’s neck, the relief that flooded him was almost enough to make him fall asleep then and there. As appealing as the idea was, he could think of several people who would skin his ass for doing so, and colourfully cursed the evil genius who’d managed to cover the New Jersey highway with poisonous-spore-spitting lizard-men as he recollected his arrows. Less than twelve hours ago he’d been in Turkey, sorting out a dodgy-looking ring of drug dealers with ‘unusual’ substances, but before he’d even been able to get back home he’d been redirected to help with the latest Avengers crisis, and as sleeping on planes had never been Clint’s thing, he was thoroughly bush-whacked. 

“Hawkeye, that’s the last of them. We’re calling in extraction,” Coulson said over comms, quickly sounding out a reference for him to find. 

“Understood,” Clint returned gratefully, slipping the last arrow back into the quiver. The news couldn’t have come any sooner, and if it hadn’t been for a certain genius playboy billionaire philanthropist, it wouldn’t have; he still couldn’t get over the brilliance of the earpiece Tony designed for him: hearing aid and communications device in one tiny little package. How Tony had known he was deaf was a mystery, but one he didn’t care to solve. 

“Watch you don’t step on any spores,” Cap’s voice warned as he set off. “Bruce thinks they could still do some damage.” 

“Does he know what, exactly?” he asked, avoiding a cluster of small green balls. 

“The kind that could bring a super soldier to his knees,” Bruce said. 

“Point taken.” 

“You still on your feet, Legolas?” Iron Man called next. “Thought you’d wanna go curl up in a tree right about now. Two weeks in Istanbul to this is not a good thing to lose sleep over.” 

“Believe me, I do,” Clint moaned, shielding his eyes to watch the retrieval helicopter swoop into view. “But a bed is much more comfortable, and has a hot shower within stumbling distance. Much better than Mother Nature after a hard day of Whack-A-Lizard.” Not to mention both those luxuries had a certain someone he could share them with. 

“Can’t argue with that. I suppose a tree doesn’t have JARVIS, either, but one day –” 

“You are not seriously suggesting installing JARVIS into nature?” Cap interrupted. 

As the helicopter touched down, Clint heard Bruce groan. “Don’t tempt him.” Hauling himself inside, he settled back next to Natasha, eyes quickly taking in her seemingly undamaged appearance. Her uniform was dusty and torn in a couple of places, but other than that you’d barely know she’d been saving New Jersey. She gave him a cursory nod when he finished his inspection, and he knew she’d made one of her own. He cast his eyes over the rest of the team; Steve had an ice pack pressed to his forehead, patriotic uniform in a similar state to Natasha’s, but otherwise he seemed none the worse for the day’s chaos. Bruce, too, looked nothing more than worn out, and was already dressed in a shirt and trousers after hulking out. Clint didn’t like the way he was watching him, though. 

When Tony streaked past, Clint looked around the helicopter, craning his neck to see who was in the pilot’s seat. He didn’t recognise either the pilot or co-pilot, and nobody was behind him or Nat when he checked there too. “Hey,” he said to the others, “where’s Bucky?” 

Steve looked away. In the corner of his eye, Natasha went very still. Bruce’s expression suddenly became very clear. “He took a hit just before the end,” Tony said over comms, voice devoid of the bantering tone it normally held. “We got him out. He should be arriving in medical any minute now.” 

Clint blinked, feeling his heart sink as the blood drained from his face. “What kind of hit?” 

“A spore,” Natasha said quietly beside him. They locked gazes for a second as the implications of her words hit home, and he turned sharply to Bruce. 

“There’s gotta be an antidote…” 

The doctor couldn’t have looked any more apologetic. “Maybe they’ll find one in time,” he offered. Next to him, Steve lowered the ice pack, eyes bleak, and Clint’s heart skipped a beat. 

Something rested on his arm, and he looked down to see Natasha’s hand against his skin. There was something in her eyes he’d never seen before: fearful concern; no-one else would recognise it, but he could, and that was enough to tell him that this was serious, that Bruce’s optimism was pretty pointless. He swallowed hard, turning away from her and pressing the side of his face against the helicopter’s open side door, struggling to wrap his brain around words that, as of yet, hadn’t been said out loud. As New Jersey and its messed-up highway continued to disappear from view, he closed his eyes, giving up on coming to terms with the present and letting his mind wander for the rest of the journey.


	2. Playing Catch-Up

Giant insects in Washington. None of the Avengers were particularly surprised (it wasn’t the weirdest thing to be called out for, believe it or not), and jetted out quickly to the sound of Tony spewing insect-related quips. “Should we keep a couple for Hank to talk to? He likes bugs, right? Maybe it could become our mascot; ‘The Avengers and Buggy Save the Day!’ Got a ring to it, right?” 

“That sounds too much like Bucky,” Steve said. 

“Then we’ll call him Buckaroo.” 

Clint stifled a laugh as Bucky rolled his eyes. “You are not changing my name to ‘Buckaroo’. That’s a kids’ game.” 

“And it suits you perfectly: a grumpy ass, adored by kids, willing to shoulder a lot of weight, but push you just a little too far –” 

“And Iron Man gets knocked out of the sky.” 

“You’re no fun, Barnes. What does Hawkass see in you? Anyway, Buggy’s for Hank. Would you really want to be the one to keep Hank from the love of his life?” 

Bruce smiled. “I’m pretty sure the love of Hank’s life is Jan.” 

“Does she like bugs?” 

“No,” Natasha half-growled from the back of the jet. 

“How would you know, Natasha? Have we been spending a little one-on-one girl-time with Miss van Dyne?” Silence was his response. “Please tell me she hasn’t ripped the arm of the seat out of place… That would be annoying.” 

Once they’d landed, Captain America dished out his instructions, splitting them up for more effective pest control. He sent Black Widow to find out where the giant, wasp-esque creatures were coming from, telling the Winter Soldier to watch her back from a distance. Iron Man was to act as a distraction – the bugs seemed to target him because he could fly – allowing the rest of them to let loose and “go bug swatting” as they pleased. Whilst Hulk jumped from building to building, squashing as many of the things as he could, Clint kept an eye from the roofs on Captain America, who had taken it upon himself to defend the streets. He’d been happily spearing for some time when a cheer went up over his comms. 

“Haha! That makes fifty!” 

Pausing, Clint grinned. Of course Bucky would be counting. It was a little game they played sometimes, when the job at hand involved taking out multiple enemies in large quantities, one that had started (predictably) after Clint had introduced Bucky to Lord of the Rings under the pretence of explaining why Tony called him Legolas. Sliding two arrows into place, he hummed smugly as they both found their targets. “Fifty-two,” he said. 

“What?” A couple of bangs echoed down the line. “Fifty-three!” 

“Oh it’s on, Gimli.” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

“Well I’m Legolas – fifty-four – so what else am I supposed to call you?” 

“Fifty-five. I don’t know, aren’t there any other badass sniper-types in those films? Fifty-six.” 

“Fifty-seven. I suppose there’s Haldir.” 

“He dies!” 

“Well it’s either him or – fifty-eight – Gimli. Your pick. Fifty-nine.” 

“Sixty. This conversation isn’t over.” 

“Oh, I doubt it is. Sixty-three.” 

“What the – fuck off!” 

The competition continued for the duration of the ‘extermination’, as Iron Man called it. Most of the time Bucky would be trailing, prompting Clint to call him Gimli until he pulled his numbers back up in retaliation. He would curse each time Clint got ahead too, making him laugh as he pictured the look of pure irritation on Buck’s face. In return, Bucky laughed when he went ahead, but Clint was having too much fun to be bothered – he just grinned and sent a couple more arrows flying. Truth be told, it made him happy when Bucky got ahead; personalised Stark sniper rifle or not, he still couldn’t fire more than one bullet at a time. 

It didn’t take the team long to reduce the swarm once Natasha took care of the nest, but as the number of targets dwindled the two snipers hit a problem. 

“One-hundred and forty-two!” 

“One-hundred and forty-two!” 

There was a pause over the line, and Clint frowned. “Did we just get the same score?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky replied, sounding a little put-out. “I can’t see any more of them.” 

“Me neither.” 

There was a crackle in Clint’s ear as Iron Man shot past, his voice coming across on the other line. “Yo, Sniper Bros, we’re out. Get your good-looking hides back down to ground level, Cap wants to pat us on our backs.” 

Clint and Bucky met up on the main street, briefly scanning each other for signs of injury before following the trail of dead bugs to the rest of the Avengers. “How often has this happened?” Bucky asked, referring to their earlier conundrum. 

“Once? Twice, maybe?” Clint shook his head. “Not often.” 

“Dammit,” he muttered, “I had one up on you as well.” 

“In your dreams, Buck.” 

“I thought we agreed not to count the octuplets.” 

“You agreed, perhaps.” 

“Well if they did count, we’d still be level,” Bucky pointed out, and the two of them slowed to a stop. 

After giving it some thought, Clint had an idea. “How about a compromise?” 

He was met with a suspicious look. “Alright.” 

“We call it even here, and I let you be on top tonight?” 

Bucky snorted, shaking his head and turning away to try and hide the smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “You’re unbelievable.” 

Clint wiggled his eyebrows. “Talented or handsome?” 

The smile became a smirk. “Both, I guess,” Bucky said moving closer, hands coming to rest on Clint’s hips as they kissed, light but loving. “Fine. We’ll call it even.” 

The archer grinned. “Love you too, Bu –” The sound of Bucky’s handgun going off made him jump, and he snapped his head round in time to see a giant wasp flop limply to the tarmac. Bucky whooped. 

“One-hundred and forty-three!” 

“Aw, come on – that deal’s off!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "something like Legolas and Gimili from LOTR where they're counting how many people they take down."


	3. You Stayed

When consciousness coaxed Clint out of sleep and back into the real world, it took him a short while to realise that a few things were off: he was much warmer than usual, for starters, and the dawn light was coming from a different angle. Oh, and something hard and unyielding was pressed down the length of his spine. 

Eyes still bleary, Clint reached out for his hearing aids, caught off-guard a little when they weren’t immediately within reach on his bedside table. Frowning, he decided to address the discomfort at his back, and shifted round until he was lying on his other side – unsurprisingly, this was when things became a whole lot clearer. 

Bucky Barnes was lying on his stomach, wedged between Clint and the wall. His metal arm was what Clint had felt at his back, and as he stared at it in confusion the archer began to remember things: things like Bucky suggesting he used the air vents to travel back to his own room, feeling too exhausted to push the dead weight off his chest, being woken up by the sound of someone muttering in Russian before – 

Rubbing his eyes roughly, Clint banished the memory, choosing instead to look at Bucky in a new light (literally). Though he couldn’t see much beyond the back of his head, he decided that bed-head-Bucky was even more gorgeous than regular-head-Bucky, and far better in real life than in his imagination. The metal of his arm was dull in the poor light, but the small Captain America-style symbol was clearly discernible; at the seam, the scarring didn’t look as bad as it sometimes did – Clint remembered Bucky mentioning once after a particularly arduous mission that his shoulder hurt, and everyone had been horrified to find that the edge of the metal had actually cut into his flesh. What was even more horrifying was Bucky’s nonchalance about the situation. Apparently, the Winter Soldier used to just wrap it and keep going. 

With the bed covers pulled down, Clint had full view of Bucky’s back, and at first glance it looked like any other bare back he’d ever seen, but when his eyes adjusted properly he began to make out strips and flecks of silvery white. Some of the scars were raised, others were flat; their sizes ranged from the width of a fingernail to the length of his hand; some Clint could identify as too precise to be accidental, and he wondered if Bucky even knew how many existed. For a long time, he was mesmerised, so much so that he suddenly found himself waking up again as Bucky rolled over, also ‘awake’, and they ended up staring at each other in confusion. 

Clint recovered first, ignoring the mild horror in Bucky’s eyes and going for a relaxed smile. “Hey.” 

Bucky blinked. “Hi…” The corner of his mouth was hesitantly pulling up, but his eyes still betrayed him. 

Rubbing his ears, Clint regretted putting his aids back in before he’d dozed off again (not to mention keeping them in for half the night in the first place). “You okay?” He watched as the other man frowned, staring into space as he recalled the drama of a few hours before. 

“Oh, shit,” he muttered. “I’m so sorry, you didn’t have to –” 

“Bucky, it’s –” 

“Did I hurt you?” 

“No.” 

“I didn’t – break anything?” 

He shook his head. “No. Bucky, it’s fine,” he added soothingly. “I’ve dealt with nightmares before, both my own and others’. It doesn’t bother me.” 

Bucky looked sceptical. “You sure?” 

“I’m sure.” He grinned. “I stayed, didn’t I?” Clint couldn’t read the look on Bucky’s face at that, and was mildly surprised when he just shifted back onto his stomach, arms coming up to pillow his head as he turned to face the wall. “Bucky?” There was no answer, and Clint frowned. He sat up a little to try and see better, but the former assassin had his face well and truly hidden – what Clint did see, however, was the strip of sunlight from the edge of the curtains that lay perfectly down the centre of his back, from the base of his neck to the top of the bed sheets at his waist. Unable to resist, he leant forward to press a kiss to the top of the strip, and proceeded to slowly make his way down Bucky’s back, feeling the faint ridges and dips of the scars he’d been admiring not too long ago. When he was halfway down, Bucky sighed deeply. “Penny for your thoughts?” 

“I’m thinking I could get used to this,” he mumbled, and Clint chuckled softly. 

“Guess the deeper thoughts are worth more than a penny, huh?” 

“They are when you’re using the wrong currency.” He was silent for a moment, speaking again when Clint resumed his activity. “Why did you stay?” 

“Because you fell asleep on top of me, and I couldn’t shift –” 

“No, I mean after… After.” 

Clint looked up. Bucky had twisted his head round, and was watching him closely, deep concern on his sleep-addled features. Lying back down, Clint moved until he was almost pressed against Bucky’s side, running the backs of his fingers between his shoulder-blades lightly as he gazed into searching eyes. “Who the hell would I be if I ran at the first signs of something troubling you?” he asked rhetorically. “It’s like I said, Buck – I know nightmares, and I also know you’ve been put through so much shit. Abandoning you when I could help?” He shook his head. “I’m not that kind of asshole.” 

His last comment earned him a snort, but Bucky’s face relaxed as he closed his eyes with a fond smile. “No, you’re not.” He opened them again. “Hey, is this the first time…” 

“Either of us have woken up in the other’s bed? Yeah,” Clint finished before leaning closer. “And I wouldn’t mind if it happened again.” 

It was a lazy kiss, lips soft and pliant in the wake of sleep. “In whose bed?” Bucky asked when they parted. 

He shrugged. “Don’t care. So long as you’re there too…” 

“You’re a sap.” 

“Right back at ya.” 

Bucky pushed himself up, leaning over Clint and giving him a deeper kiss into his pillow. “Hey – remember when you got drunk and told me about that list of yours?” 

Clint swallowed, hoping his cheeks weren’t suddenly as red as they felt. “The Sexytimes list?” 

“Now seems like ample opportunity to get one of those things crossed off.” A devilish grin had spread itself across Bucky’s face, and Clint raised his eyebrows. 

“You remember who gave out first last night, right?” he asked, but when warm lips started to work at the soft spot at the back of his jaw he realised that, once again, he wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "The first morning after the first time they actually stay the night together."


	4. It's Like This...

Telling the others they were in a relationship wasn’t a high priority for either Clint or Bucky, for various reasons. Mostly, the secrecy was at Bucky’s insistence: homosexuality wasn’t something one advertised in the forties, and seventy years of age or not he was still in that half-fearful mind-set, worrying that Fury would see it as reason to kick them to the kerb. Given that Clint had had a hard enough time convincing him it was okay to even feel that way about another man, he was in no hurry to make him ‘go public’. Luckily, their coming out happened by chance – and to the best person possible. 

For someone known as Hawkeye, Clint Barton did, on occasion, take a while to actually be able to see things in the morning. In these instances, he was able to rely on memory to guide him through the minutes until his sight was back up to non-sleepy status so he could discern where he was – that, and he recognised the smell of Bucky’s bed (and the position of it when he smacked his hand into the wall whilst stretching). Registering his brain’s dire need for caffeine, he fumbled around for his hearing aids and something to cover his lower half before shuffling out into the main living area. 

Aids in one hand, Clint looked up and identified a dark, silvery smudge as Bucky leaning back against one of the kitchen counters. He waved as he trudged past, heading straight for where he remembered the coffee machine to be, and counted the buttons until he was (fairly) sure he hit the right one. He timed the maker once so that he knew how long it took to give him coffee, and after adding five seconds just to be sure he picked up the white blob that was his mug, taking a gratifying sip. Then he shuffled back over to Bucky, dropping his face onto his good shoulder and huffing, the cotton against his eyelids soft and comforting. 

Bucky elbowed him. Not hard, but enough to make Clint lift his head slightly and wrench open his eyes again. And that was when he noticed that, opposite them, something was sat at Bucky’s table. Something human-shaped. “Oh shi’,” he mumbled, reluctantly setting his coffee down so he could slip his hearing aids in. 

“Clint,” Bucky said once he could hear, an odd note in his voice. “Steve’s here.” 

“Steve?” Digging his fingers into his eyes for a second, Clint looked again and saw that the blurry object had, indeed, become more Steve-like. 

“Hello Clint,” the Steve-shape said, confirming once and for all that yes, Steve Rogers was sat in Bucky’s apartment, and had just witnessed some slight domesticity between them. 

“Hello,” he returned weakly, blinking again. Vision a little sharper, he could just about make out the expression on Bucky’s face – it wasn’t a good one. Nobody needed good eyesight to be able to tell the situation was awkward to say the least. 

“So,” Steve said after a long silence. “You two, uh… I mean, does Clint regularly… come for coffee?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky answered slowly. “He likes it here.” 

“Shirtless?” Both Bucky and Clint looked at his naked torso at the same time. Steve cleared his throat to get their attention back. “Are you two… fondueing?” 

“Fon-what?” 

“Jesus,” Clint muttered, picking up his coffee and relocating to the table. “Yes, Steve, Bucky and I are sleeping together. Bucky, I can hear you glaring at me – stop. If he didn’t work it out himself he’d have gone to Stark, and then the grand investigation would’ve started.” 

“I wouldn’t…” Steve trailed off, and Clint rubbed his eyes enough that he could make out a hesitant facial expression on the super soldier in front of him. He turned to Bucky. “So, you’re… Y’know…” 

Bucky nodded stiffly, hunched over his coffee. “Yeah.” 

"All your life?" He shrugged, and Steve processed that for a few seconds. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?” he asked. 

The Winter Soldier stared into his mug. “Thought I wouldn’t need to if I spent enough time with the dames,” he explained quietly. “Then there was the war, then I was – uh, in Russia… and then someone told me things had changed.” 

Clint felt rather than saw Bucky’s eyes flick to him, and sat a little straighter in his chair. “You know opinions are different now, Steve,” he said. “Not everyone is so bothered by men seeing each other.” 

Captain America nodded vacantly. “Does anyone else know?” 

“Well we didn’t plan on telling anyone until Buck was comfortable.” 

“You would’ve been first, Steve,” Bucky swore, and Clint was now alert enough that he could see every inch of sincerity (and hope) in Bucky’s eyes. 

“How long has this been going on?” Steve was surprised when they told him, but his features were quickly schooled before suddenly blossoming into a near-blinding beam. “I guess if you two are happy, I’m happy,” he declared. Clint smiled at him, glad when he noticed the tension slide from Bucky’s shoulders. “You have my blessing.” 

He snorted. “Didn’t know we were askin’ for it, old man.” 

“It’s a forties thing, kid,” Bucky told him, smirking into his drink. 

“Whatever.” 

“I just have one question though.” Bucky tensed again, and Clint raised an eyebrow. “You’re being safe when you fondue, right?” 

Steve Rogers was promptly ushered from the apartment, barely being given enough time to swear secrecy before the door was closed behind him. The only flaw with this plan was that he wasn’t around when Bucky asked what the hell cheese fondue had to do with anything, but watching him fall to the floor in laughter upon finding out more than made up for Clint having to tell him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Telling Steve they're together."


	5. Winter Cleaning

“Pass the solvent?” 

From his position in the armchair, Clint tossed the small bottle over the coffee table to Bucky on the sofa, watching the way the light glinted off the metal hand that snatched it out of mid-air. “You nearly done?” he whined. 

Bucky rolled his eyes. “No.” 

“But I’m bored!” 

“So go sort out your arrows or something.” 

Looking pointedly at the coffee table, over which Bucky had spread out the many parts of his custom sniper rifle, Clint argued back: “There’s no room for them.” 

“What?” 

“You and your fancy toy have taken up all the space, in case you hadn’t noticed.” 

Poking a cleaning patch down the barrel, Bucky snorted. “Okay. I get it.” 

Clint frowned. “Get what?” 

“You’re jealous.” 

He raised his eyebrows. “Of the gun? You wish.” But oh, he was – not only was it a beautiful piece of machinery that even Clint, as an archer, would have loved to have held, it was currently taking up ninety per-cent of Bucky’s attention, and would be for a while yet if the assassin decided to be meticulous (which he often was when it came to this particular weapon). If Clint had known this was what would await him when he invited himself round, he’d have gone to the range first or called up Natasha for some sparring. 

Bucky laughed. “Why don’t you put some of those sniper skills to use and be patient?” he suggested. “I promise – you’ll have my complete attention once my baby’s nice and clean again.” 

“You gonna show me as much devotion as you do that thing?” The look thrown his way had him raising his hands. “Alright, not in the mood, fine.” 

“Be patient, Clint. I’ll be done before you know it.” 

He huffed. “Yeah. Sure.” But as he hunkered down into the armchair, Clint realised that, actually, he didn’t mind waiting too much for Bucky to finish cleaning, not when he got to watch the man do something he enjoyed in the comfort of his own apartment. It wasn’t like he’d never seen Bucky clean a weapon before, but this time was different. 

Doing what he’d been told, Clint put his sniper skills to good use and observed. He watched as Bucky carefully fed cleaning patches down the dark barrel, checking each one before setting aside the rod and looking down the nozzle, placing it back onto the table once he was satisfied. Next he tended to the smaller parts – the bolt, magazine, scope, etc. – wiping them down carefully with solvent until there wasn’t a millimetre untouched, spending the same amount of time on each component and with the same degree of care. When it came to lubricating the joints, Clint found his eyes glued to the end of the cotton bud as Bucky worked it into every nook and cranny possible (and if he ended up thinking of other places Bucky could stick a lubricated something-or-other into, who could blame him, really?); he was taking his time at particularly sensitive areas, head bent low over the pieces, brow drawn in concentration. It was a sight Clint committed to memory: Bucky in his element, going through motions that hadn’t really changed since the forties, precise and efficient but far from deadly. 

Clint wondered if he looked the same way when tending to his arrows or his bow. He knew that they each treated their respective weapons like extensions of themselves: Clint’s S.H.I.E.L.D-designed recurve bow was his pride and joy – reliable in every scenario, sleek and elegant, deceptively durable, the perfect balance of archaic and modern. Bucky’s sniper rifle, a Savage 110 BA that Tony had “vastly improved” to his liking, was his favourite weapon of choice when going for the long-range option, and Clint could see why. Whatever had been done to it had made the gun much lighter than its standard counterpart, but the power hadn’t been altered to compensate one jot; if anything, Bucky insisted it was more powerful. The scope was one of Tony’s own designs, computerised (of course) and complicated, but it allowed Bucky to make shots almost as well as Clint. Sometimes, the archer wanted one for his bow, until he realised what an awful thing to do to his beloved, unsophisticated recurve that would be (not that Tony hadn’t tried to convince him otherwise). 

“There. Was that so hard?” 

Blinking out of his reverie, Clint saw that Bucky had finally finished cleaning, and was slotting the pieces of the gun back together, the sounds of sliding and clicking metal sharp against his ears. Having reassembled it, he pointed it in Clint’s direction, sighting him down the scope and grinning. 

Clint rolled his eyes. “I’m a sniper, Buck. I’ve have to wait out worse than you showing an irrational amount of devotion to a piece of trussed-up weaponry.” 

“I knew it!” he crowed. “You have gun envy!” 

“Do not.” The denial was weak, and Bucky was laughing as he stood to pack the rifle away. He leant down and pressed a kiss to the top of Clint’s head as he passed. 

“Don’t worry yourself, kid. You’re still number one in my books.” 

“’M not a kid,” he mumbled; but he couldn’t help smiling at the affection nonetheless. Two minutes later, with the rifle and cleaning equipment gone, Clint was once again the focal point for Bucky’s attention. Making out on the couch had never felt so good – until he was struck with a recurring thought. “Hey,” he managed to get out between kisses; “You know how I might get a teeny bit envious of your gun when you clean it like that?” 

“Mmh,” Bucky hummed, trailing his lips up the edge of Clint’s jaw. 

“Do you feel like that when I’m looking after my arrows?” 

The question seemed to be deeper than he’d intended, judging by the way Bucky stopped what he was doing to pull back slowly. He thought about it for a minute, eventually shaking his head with a quiet “No.” Clint was about to feel disappointed when he continued: “I used to, but then I reasoned it out.” 

Clint raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” 

Giving a small smile, he shrugged lightly. “You love your bow and your arrows, Clint, there’s no denying that. I love my rifle, too. But no matter how we look at them, no matter how much care and devotion we give them, there’s one stand-out difference: I love the rifle, but I’m in love with you.” 

Suddenly hyper-aware of the feel of Bucky’s thumb stroking his cheek, Clint let a grin stretch slowly across his face. “Okay… I think I get it.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I’m in love with you too, Buck.” 

“Good.” After sharing another kiss, it was Bucky who quirked an eyebrow at him. “Jealous spat over now?” 

He sighed petulantly. “Yes – I’m no longer envious of the inanimate object.” 

“Glad to hear it,” Bucky chuckled, leaning in to murmur seductively into Clint’s ear; “because you’re next on my cleaning list.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "something with cooking/baking? Or cleaning weapons."


	6. You Have Been Warned

Natasha didn’t join him on the range very often, but when she did, Clint knew that meant she had something to get off her chest; more specifically, something regarding him. At first, he barely acknowledged her presence, just pausing long enough between shots that she got the message. It was only until he’d emptied his quiver that he put his hearing aids back in and turned to her. 

“Something wrong?” 

“No.” The Black Widow watched him as he packed away his bow, arms casually folded over her chest. 

He raised his eyebrows. “Am I in trouble?” 

She pursed her lips. “Not really.” 

“Has Coulson sent you?” 

“No.” 

Straightening, Clint frowned. “Then I’m all out of guesses. What do you want, Nat?” 

Natasha studied him for a few seconds, head angled slightly to one side. “There’s something we need to talk about.” 

“There is?” The last time they’d had ‘something to talk about’ had been after Loki and the Chitauri, after they’d all gone their separate ways and she’d insisted on sticking to him until she was sure he’d recovered. When she tilted her head towards the door he followed, making a mental note to retrieve his arrows later whilst wondering where she was taking him. It turned out to be just the elevator, which wasn’t particularly exciting in itself but made Clint nervous – Natasha wasn’t giving him any escape routes. 

“I was speaking to Steve earlier,” she said when he stepped in beside her. 

“Yeah?” 

The lift started to move down and she nodded. “He mentioned that you and James were seeing each other. Accidentally, of course. He feels terrible about it.” 

Frozen in place by her words, Clint swallowed hard before nodding. “Yeah, well… Y’know, it’s Steve, so –” 

“Do you remember the night you brought me in?” 

Startled by the abrupt change in conversation, Clint blinked. “How the hell could I forget? I wasted at least a dozen arrows on you.” 

Natasha punched him lightly on the shoulder, a tiny smirk on her face. “What did I say to you after you made your offer?” 

“You threatened me,” he said, then turned to look at her. “Unless this is another Budapest, and we’re remembering it very differently?” 

“Oh no, I threatened you,” she agreed calmly. “Can you recall what with?” 

He couldn’t help but squirm. “Yes.” 

“Good.” Her green eyes were suddenly very, very serious as she fixed them on him, and it felt like hundreds of spiders were running over his skin. “If I ever find out that you hurt James in any way then that threat will be carried out, Clint. Do you understand?” 

Clint felt the blood drain from his face, and he nodded jerkily as the lift doors opened on the R&D floor. “Yeah. I got it.” She dipped her chin in return, leaving him where he stood. 

“I hope it never comes to that,” she said over her shoulder. “I wasn’t so fond of you when I first said those words. I’d hate to have to do something like that to you now.” 

“You won’t,” he promised as the doors slid shut. Only when the lift started moving again did he slump against the wall, wrapping his head around what had just happened; he regained his composure in time for the doors to open at ground level, and left S.H.I.E.L.D Headquarters without anyone bothering him (even though he’d left all his arrows in a target on the range – the sooner Tony finished upgrading the one in the tower, the better). Hopping into the car he’d borrowed from the Stark garage, he let the music from the radio wash over him until he arrived at Headquarters number two – the former Stark Tower – and then it was another elevator ride until he reached Bucky’s level. He let himself in, happy to see Bucky watching a modern movie, and flopped down on the couch, laying his head in the other’s lap. 

“Steve told Tasha about us,” he said five minutes later, the tips Bucky’s fingers in his hair. 

“So I heard.” 

“She gave me shovel talk, y’know.” 

Bucky chuckled, the sound deep and warm in Clint’s current position. “What’d she say?” 

He shrugged. “Eh, nothing too bad. Just promised to follow up on an old threat she made me way back when.” 

“I’m guessing she won’t actually have to go through with it though, right?” 

“Let’s just say that I like my manly bits where they are. Uncooked.” That made Bucky laugh hard, and Clint could feel the way his body shook with it. It made him grin, too. 

“You and me both, kid!” he said once he caught his breath back. Wiping a tear from his eye, he shook his head. “Nice to know she’s looking out for me, too.” 

“Hm?” 

With a quick glance down, Bucky shrugged one shoulder. “She might have also given me a few words of warning.” 

“Like what?” 

The joviality slowly drained away from his face, leaving him staring vacantly at nothing in particular. “Bringing something up from the past,” he said softly. He had gone very still. Concerned, Clint raised a hand, brushing his knuckles against Bucky’s chest lightly. The haunted look was blinked away, and Bucky smiled down at him, pressing Clint’s fingers against his lips briefly before returning his attention to the film. Whatever it was Natasha had said to him, Clint didn’t doubt that it wasn’t something she ever wanted to do to Bucky – it was just to make sure he knew how serious she was being about protecting them both. The thought warmed his heart. “You know that’s just her way of saying we have her blessing, right?” Bucky said a few minutes later. 

Clint rolled his eyes. “Seriously, how many blessings are we gonna end up with?” 

“Told you kid –” 

“It’s an oldies’ thing, I know.” Bucky looked down at him, eyebrows raised. “Dude, you were born in the twenties.” The answering snort was confirmation that no offence was taken, and Clint relaxed back into the feel of fingers trailing through his hair. “Wait, you won’t tell Natasha I referred to her as an oldie, will you?” Bucky never answered – just grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "if Natasha is close with both Bucky and Clint then who does she threaten if they hurt the other one?"


	7. Out of Sight

If anyone from the Avengers was to organise a team-bonding exercise, Tony Stark would be the last guess of anyone in S.H.I.E.L.D. But when he ended up cajoling the other members into agreeing to meet up in the Tower’s Virtual Scenario room for such an event, the rest of the team tried not to imagine what horrors they were in store for. 

“A night wire?” 

Tony nodded happily as Steve and Bucky frowned at each other. “What, they didn’t do night wires back in the day?” 

“Not that I can remember,” Steve said. 

“Excellent – then allow me to explain.” He gestured to the empty scenario room. “In a few moments JARVIS is going to turn this beautiful blank canvas into a physical work of art for us to traverse.” 

“You mean like an assault course?” 

“Yes, but with a twist.” 

Bucky eyed him warily. “What kind of twist?” 

“You’ll be blindfolded. Hence the ‘night’ part of the game’s name.” 

“Blindfolded?” Steve echoed. 

“It’s not as bad as it sounds, Steve,” Bruce assured him. 

“Yeah,” Sam agreed on his other side. “You hold onto a wire all the time. That’s why it’s called night wire.” 

“Flyboy’s right,” Tony continued, “except we don’t have a wire, we have this.” In his palm lay a small, cylindrical object with lights at either end. “This is a laser-guided guide. Whoever’s in front will have one hand on this, and JARVIS will construct a laser path for it to follow. So sort of like a wire without the wire.” He turned to Steve and Bucky. “Any questions? No? Then what are we waiting for?” 

Feeling apprehensive, Clint swallowed, trying to catch Bucky’s eye before his sight was taken away from him. He fidgeted with his hearing aids, making sure they were working as well as possible, and tried not to let anyone see how nervous he was. 

Pepper made an appearance to help with the blindfolds. Tony declared he’d already thought of the order in which people would stand, and was quickly guiding people into place once everyone was visually impaired. “Okay Barton, time to step up. Not literally, of course. Gimme your hands. Come on. Hands. Just hold them out. Seriously, I’m not gonna – thank you. Right, now one foot in front of the other.” 

“I know how to walk, Stark.” 

“I’m sure you do, but you know how people get when they’re blind.” 

“No, I don’t. I’m pretty sure that’d offend –” 

“Alright, we’re nearly there. That’s it, few more steps. Barnes, don’t freak out, this is just Barton coming up behind you – as usual, I’m sure.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“Barton, he’s right there. Forward a little more, and – yep, you got him.” 

Clint froze. Tony had guided his hands onto Bucky for him, and now he was holding onto Bucky’s ass. If Clint hadn’t been blindfolded, he’d have rolled his eyes. “Very funny Tony,” he said, moving his hands to Bucky’s shoulders instead. 

“You mean that’s not how you two normally –” 

“No,” Bucky growled, and Clint squeezed him lightly in reassurance. Thankfully, Tony said no more, and Pepper led him to the back of the group to be blindfolded himself. Moments later, JARVIS announced that the course was about to begin, and Clint listened hard as the scenario room came to life around them, failing to pinpoint what was happening and where. It was a few minutes before silence settled again. 

“Mr Wilson,” JARVIS said, “you may begin.” 

“Okay guys – here we go.” 

It was a couple seconds before Clint felt Bucky take a step forward, and he tentatively followed suit, trying to quickly form a mental image in his head. He knew that Sam was at the front with Steve behind him, and that Carol was between Bucky and Steve. Behind him was Bruce, which meant that Natasha was in front of Tony (or behind him, if Pepper had been smart). He heard Steve and Carol muttering to each other up ahead, then Bucky was quietly warning him they were about to cross some tyres. “Put your feet in the holes.” 

“Right,” he whispered back, and when he felt Bucky’s body shift under his hands (not distracting at all – nope, no way) he hesitantly raised his leg, feeling around until he could make out the shape of a tyre on its side. Stepping through them was hard, and when it seemed like the others were moving faster than he was, Clint panicked. 

“Sam, slow down a bit,” Bucky called. 

“Everything alright?” Carol asked. 

Clint took a breath before answering. “We’re good.” 

“Are you sure?” Bruce asked almost too softly. 

“Yeah.” If the doctor sensed he was lying, he didn’t say anything; which was good, because the last thing Clint wanted to do was explain how much he hated not being able to see. Being deaf was one thing, but he could handle it. He didn’t rely on his ears as much as he did his eyes, and having that power stripped away from him made him feel helpless. It wasn’t a fear of the dark – he could still see things in the dark – but when all there was in front of him was darkness, there was no denying that fear did begin to twist its way to his heart. Take out his hearing aids, and Clint knew he would freeze. It was this that made him focus on Bucky in front of him, on what he could feel rather than hear: the sensation of firm metal and soft muscle beneath the t-shirt under his left hand, of Bruce’s hands, warm and heavy on his own shoulders, and as the minutes rolled by and Sam led them up and down and around whatever was in their way, Clint began – minutely – to feel at ease. 

Until he lost his balance; in his attempt to stay on his feet, he let go of Bucky. Stumbling forwards he felt Bruce’s hands disappear from his body, and that was it: he was alone and blind. Part of him knew he could just remove the blindfold, but he remembered JARVIS saying he’d turned off the lights – his eyes would take ages to adjust, and by then he’d be out of the exercise, and Bruce wouldn’t be able to find Bucky to reconnect, and he’d have let his team down, all because of some stupid, irrational sense of – 

“Clint?” 

He swallowed. “Bucky?” His heart was beating fast, the blood pounding in his ears. It made hearing even harder. He reached out, straining to hear anything that might give him a clue about the location of the others, but the sounds of shuffling feet and quiet murmurs were echoing, and he dared not fiddle with his aids lest those sounds disappeared altogether. Stretching his arms out, his stomach flipped as his fingers found nought but thin air. “Bucky!” 

A metal hand suddenly bumped against his and Clint grabbed it, moving closer until he could feel the solid, familiar shape of a body he knew well against his chest. He rested his forehead against the nape of a neck, breathing deeply as he held on tight. “I’ve got you,” Bucky murmured, thumb stroking the back of Clint’s knuckles gently. 

Despite the reassurance, Clint still flinched when Bruce found him again, and remained tense throughout the course until the moment JARVIS told them they could remove their blindfolds. He couldn’t get the damn thing off fast enough, but once he did, the tension rushed out of him, and he turned to view the course like everyone else. The team was congratulating each other behind him, Sam talking about the difficulty of coming across obstacles first, and Clint shuddered. Where he’d had his little freak-out he couldn’t tell, but looking at the simple blocks and slopes and small bridges they’d been guided over, it was hard to see why he’d panicked at all. 

“Hey.” Bucky stepped around him, features set in concern. “What happened back there?” 

“I…” Blinking, Clint looked down at the black cloth in his hands. Bucky knew about his insecurity. This would’ve been the first time he’d witnessed it – well, as much as one can witness something blindfolded. Would it change his opinion of him? Would he think Clint stupid for freaking out over something so trivial? What if he didn’t understand? What if nobody understood? What if they laughed at him? Coulson might tell Fury, and then – 

Bucky pulled Clint against him, one arm around his shoulders, the other round his waist. Face buried in his chest, Clint automatically returned the gesture before he worked out what was happening: Bucky was hugging him in front of the Avengers. Bucky, whose public displays of affection rarely went beyond holding hands on the sofa, a quick squeeze of the arm or a brief nuzzle, was holding him intimately before the other members of their team, not to mention Pepper and maybe even Coulson. 

Finally relaxing, Clint closed his eyes, knowing that the one place he could be blind and safe was in Bucky’s embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Awkward but sweet incident at a 'team-bonding exercise' by the one and only Tony Stark!"  
> Maybe not so awkward, but definitely sweet, no?


	8. The Day Job

Mad scientists were a frequent source of chaos for the Avengers. Clint personally thought that the few they had in their roster were enough for the country, but self-proclaimed evil geniuses apparently disagreed. The latest frizzy-haired goon to pop up on S.H.I.E.L.D’s mad-scientist radar (Clint was still trying to make that the official name for the technology, but Coulson was being disagreeable) went by the name Eggman, which even Bucky thought was horrendously unoriginal, and had been discovered when Tesseract activity out in Colorado had been flagged up; after patching through to the camera feed from the empty airfield, the images indicated one man, a fragment of old HYDRA tech, and a lot of small mammals. He was given a low priority after that. 

Hill had sent Clint, Bucky and Hank out to Colorado to take care of Eggman, and even though he got to take the latest Quinjet out for a spin, Clint was bored. Bucky and Hank had hit the ground a while ago, and because the job didn’t need two snipers he was keeping their seats warm, so to speak. The plan was that Hank would attempt to talk him over without a fuss, Bucky acting as back-up in case things weren’t so simple, but after fifteen minutes of talking nothing was happening, as far as Clint could tell. It wasn’t until there came a grunt over comms that things started to get interesting – he watched from the jet as a man with a strange head scurried out of the old hangar, a few animal cages on his possession, and swung the craft round until he was facing Eggman head on. As the scientist skidded to a halt, Clint opened up the PA. 

“Drop the critters, Eggman.” 

Over comms, Bucky snorted. “Seriously? ‘Critters’? Not even Steve says critters, y’know.” Clint would have thrown back a snarky reply if Hank hadn’t spoken up. 

“I can get to him, Clint. Don’t let him move.” 

“What’s your plan, Hank?” 

He faintly heard static in the background, and guessed Hank had shrunk down. “I have a sedative,” he explained. “I can get the jump on him from behind, save either of you two from wasting bullets.” 

“And by that he means stop us killing the guy,” Bucky translated, sounding like he was similarly on the move. 

“Blood doesn’t have to be spilled here, Barnes!” 

“Tell that to your nose.” 

“Not going to say it again, Eggman,” Clint said, scanning the base for any sign of Bucky. “Put the animals down, and step away from them. Slowly.” 

“Or else what?” the scientist yelled back. 

He smirked despite himself. “We have one of our best snipers moving into position somewhere on this base. Make the wrong move, and he’ll pop your sweet spot before you can even think about where he might be.” 

“Flattered as I am,” Bucky said, “that’s not the nicest compliment you’ve ever given me.” 

“You’re lying!” Eggman screeched. 

Clint couldn’t resist himself. “Okay, you got me. We have a super-ant about to squash you.” Eggman flinched, and he grinned. “Come on, Brains. Believe me about our sharpshooter or don’t, it’s up to you – but do you really wanna take the risk?” 

“Got you on the scope, Pym. Just a few more metres.” 

Eggman was shouting again, and Clint was starting to get irritated. “You can’t manipulate me! I am a scientist – I am the manipulator!” 

“Last chance,” he tried again. “Cages on the ground, now.” 

His laughter was creepy, to say the least. “What’s the matter? Scared of a bunny rabbit, are we? But then perhaps you recognise that this is no ordinary rabbit; this is – aiee!” Eggman cut himself off with a yelp as Hank re-sized behind him, jabbing him in the neck with a sedative gun. Dropping a couple of cages, he staggered forward a few steps before face-planting the earth. 

“Finally!” 

“Good job, Hank.” 

“Thank you, Barnes.” 

Bringing the jet down, Clint scanned the scene again for signs of Bucky, and saw him making his way over from the base of the ATC tower. “Let’s get him on board and get back,” he suggested. “Let the clean-up team round up the critters.” Bucky snorted again. 

“I’d like to take these ones back with us now,” Hank said. “They’ve been exposed to the Tesseract’s energy – I want to see what that means for them.” 

“What did he have?” 

“Two rabbits, a guinea-pig, and a ferret, not to mention hundreds more inside the hangar, including mice and rats.” The doctor dabbed at his nose. “And a sneaky right hook.” 

“Guess the whole science-bros thing didn’t work out, huh?” Bucky said, coming up to stand beside him. Clint saw Hank give him a withering look, and smirked when Buck held his hands up defensively. 

Once Eggman and his furry friends were on board and under the magnifying glass of one Doctor Pym, Bucky joined Clint in the cockpit and raised an eyebrow at him. “Critters?” 

Clint rolled his eyes. “Will you get over that already?” 

“You couldn’t have said animals?” 

“It just rolled off the tongue better.” 

“Who says critters these days?” 

“Carnies.” Clint shrugged. “Well, one I knew did.” When Bucky stayed silent, he continued. “He was just a magic act for the kids, but he had a lot of rabbits and mice as part of his tricks; kept referring to them as critters. Guess it rubbed off on me a bit.” He stared out of the windscreen, watching clouds hurtle past and waiting for Bucky to comment. 

“I can count on one hand the number of times you’ve mentioned the circus,” he said quietly. 

“Doesn’t always come up in conversation.” 

“Because you don’t want it to.” Clint didn’t deny it. He could feel Bucky studying him intently. “It can’t all have been bad.” 

“No… But it’s the bad that stands out.” 

“How far away from HQ are we, Clint?” Hank asked suddenly from the back. 

Clint checked the jet’s fancy, on-board timer (Stark clearly had a field day when upgrading the model). “Clock says about ten minutes.” 

“Can you radio ahead and see if there’s anyone with any veterinary experience? These animals may need some medical attention.” 

Bucky turned in his seat. “Don’t you mean ‘critters’, Pym?” he asked, a shit-eating grin on his face. 

“Oh, yes – these critters. Sorry.” Clint could hear the smirk. 

“There’s nothing wrong with the word critters!” he insisted. “They even used it in Toy Story 2.” As legitimate as his statement was, neither of his companions seemed to find it remotely serious. “You’re sleeping on the couch tonight Buck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "drop the critters, eggman".


	9. Two Guys, One Night

Sat in Bucky’s apartment, waiting for him to emerge from the shower, Clint realised something: it was quiet. There were no Avengers, no S.H.I.E.L.D agents, no bleeping mobiles, no visiting gods, no crazed conquerors, no otherworldly invasion forces – nothing. It was just him and Bucky, the sun setting beyond the window wall on his left, and New York, carrying on with life as if nothing had changed in the last couple of years. When Bucky reappeared from the bedroom, Clint had already decided what they were going to be doing that night. 

“I’ve had an idea,” he said. 

Bucky rolled his eyes, a smile already on his face. “Do I need to run and hide?” 

Momentarily distracted by how sexy he looked post-shower (enough to nearly change Clint’s plans there and then), Clint shook his head. “No. This is seriously a good idea.” 

“Alright then. Shoot.” 

“Let’s go on a date.” 

Freezing as he sat down, Bucky’s expression could only be described as a mixture of horror and worry, with a hint of interest that Clint knew he’d have to pull hard on to win him over. “A date?” 

“Yeah.” 

He licked his lips. “In the tower, right?” 

Clint sighed. “I’m not talking about pizza and video games, Buck. I mean a real life, out in the city kind of date.” He sat down next to him, noticing how rigid he still was. “Look, you don’t have to worry about anything, alright? All we’ll do is get some dinner, then go someplace else for a couple of hours. It’s cool out, so no-one’ll question you wearing a jacket, and if it’s dark your arm won’t –” 

“Clint…” 

He reached over, taking Bucky’s hand in his own. “I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t think you could do this,” he said solemnly. “You’re the bravest man I know. You handled coming out to the team beautifully – this is just the next step.” Bucky stayed scowling at the table. “Okay, how about this: we drive down to the river and find a burger stall or something, then go to a cinema, watch a film. All people will see are two guys hanging out, no more than that. We don’t get nights like this, Bucky, not in our profession. Come on – for me?” 

Nervous eyes flicked to his, the hand he held having grown slightly clammy. Bucky sighed tersely. “This means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” Clint nodded earnestly, and his expression softened. “Alright,” he said quietly. “But on one condition.” 

“Yeah?” 

“You let me pay for my halves.” 

Grinning, Clint kissed him on the cheek. “Course I will. You won’t regret this Bucky, trust me!” 

“Don’t say that,” he groaned, wrinkling his nose. “That never bodes well for people like us.” He left to change, even though Clint thought he couldn’t really get hotter than a t-shirt and sweats, metal arm gleaming as though it had been polished (well, perhaps ditching the t-shirt would be a good move…) – so he was pleasantly surprised when Bucky strode out of his room a few minutes later in dark jeans and a silvery-purple dress shirt, leather jacket slung over his arm. 

“Damn,” he said. “How did I forget about that shirt?” 

Bucky rolled his eyes fondly. “Beats me. Now let’s go, before you change your mind about going out at all.” 

“Says the guy who didn’t want to in the first place,” he quipped back, already halfway out the door. 

They hit up the river in good time, arguing about music taste on the way (“Dude, just move out of the fifties, already!”), and strolled along the promenade until they came across a burger van. They queued together but bought separately, then found a quiet spot where they could lean against the railings and watch the twilight sky melt into the water. 

“What’s your favourite colour?” 

Bucky turned to look at him quizzically. “What?” 

“Your favourite colour. What is it?” 

“I... don’t really have one.” 

“Sure you do. Tell me.” 

“Why do you want to know?” he asked. 

Clint smiled at him. “We’re on a date, Buck,” he reminded him. “Probably our first ever official one, too. That’s the kind of thing you ask on dates. Isn’t it?” 

Bucky laughed. “Fine, fine, let me think…” He stared out of the water, and Clint wondered if he was going through each colour, working out what he associated with them. “Yellow’s not so bad,” he said eventually. 

“Yellow?” 

He nodded, and when he saw the question in Clint’s face, turned to stare back out over the river. “A lot of good associated with yellow. Sun, ice cream, you and Steve –” 

“Me and Steve?” Clint echoed. “You mind elaborating on that?” 

Bucky squirmed slightly, and Clint felt a little bad. “You’re both blonde,” he explained, then turned to face him with a small smile. “And yellow is the complimentary colour of purple. At least, that’s what Steve told me.” 

For a short while, Clint was surprised at Bucky – and touched. Then he grinned and shook his head. “You old sap.” 

A metal hand reached out to swat him on the shoulder. “You’re the one who wanted an explanation, kid.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” He polished off the last of his burger and scrunched up the napkin. “Come on – let’s go find a movie.” 

Thirty minutes later they’d found the perfect place. As modern as Bucky was in comparison to Steve, he still wasn’t completely adjusted, and newer films were something of a marvel in terms of special effects. Bucky had enjoyed the Westerns he’d been shown though, and this particular place – tucked away on the edge of the city – was hosting a Classic Western night. Clint watched him out of the corner of his eye as they entered, taking in the distance he put between them and the unease in his body. Having paid they slipped through the small door ahead of another group, and Clint tapped the back of his gloved metal hand once, sending him a quick smile when he looked round. “Snacks?” 

Inside, they managed to take some seats away from everyone else. Bucky relaxed once they were sat down, quickly digging in to his ice cream and stealing some of Clint’s popcorn, ignoring his protest that the film hadn’t even started. When it did, Clint waited until a few minutes in before lacing his fingers with Bucky’s, the action hidden by the low lighting, and smiled when he squeezed back. Frequently throughout the screening he caught himself staring at Bucky, mesmerised by the way the light from the film illuminated the different planes of his face, how the corner of his mouth would tug up at parts he liked, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed… They only untangled their hands when the credits began to roll an hour and a half later. 

“You see?” Clint said as they left, crossing the deserted street to the car. “That wasn’t so bad.” 

“No, it wasn’t,” Bucky agreed with a rueful smile. It must have been years since he’d last been to the pictures, Clint realised, remembering how he said he and Steve had treasured the occasions when they had the coin to be able to do so. Had he ever taken one of his dames along too? 

Checking over his shoulder, Clint grabbed Bucky’s hand and nudged his jaw around for a kiss, keeping him in place when he tried to move away. “I already looked, alright?” he muttered against his lips. “We’re alone.” 

“Oh…” Bucky kissed him back properly, a hungry edge to the action that Clint found just a bit amusing. It was still brief though, the soldier’s paranoia preventing him from indulging any further, no matter how much he trusted Clint’s sight. 

“Y’know,” Clint said as they resumed walking, “the date doesn’t have to end just because we go back to the tower.” 

Bucky smirked. “Should’ve known you’d want to do more. Getting me in bed – that your end game all along?” Clint looked straight ahead, unable to wipe the grin off his face. It wasn’t often that Bucky came over to his, but tonight Clint was going to force an exception. “Clint? What’s this?” 

Looking back, Clint glanced at the five dollar bill in Bucky’s hand. “It’s money, Buck. We’ve been using it to pay for things all night.” 

“I meant what’s it doing in my pocket, smartass? It wasn’t there before.” 

He shrugged. “Maybe you just missed it.” That it also happened to be the price of one cinema ticket was just a coincidence, but before any more could be said Clint turned and climbed into the car. When they were both inside, a thank-you kiss was pressed to his cheek, the promise of a more thorough expression of Bucky’s gratitude whispered filthily into his ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "can I get 'Date night'? :)"


	10. In the Absence of Noise

Not everything Tony Stark makes is flawless, as Clint found out one bleary-eyed morning. He’d just finished feeling out the coffee machine, letting out a small moan of pleasure when he finally took a sip of the beverage, when he noticed the Bucky silhouette gesturing at his ears and put on his hearing aids. Bucky said something, and Clint heard nothing. Frowning, he fiddled around with them, wishing they were as simple as ordinary hearing aids (because the day Tony Stark did ‘simple’ was the day S.H.I.E.L.D employed carrier pigeons), but when he clicked his fingers he still received nothing. He took them out with a sigh, signing to Bucky to let him know the situation. 

When he realised he couldn’t see what it was that Bucky signed back to him, he growled in frustration and dug his fingers into his eyes (they were his best sense, dammit!), willing them to function properly when his ears wouldn’t. A hand on his shoulder made him look up, and fuzzy-Bucky jerked his head in the direction of the table. They sat there for a few minutes, waiting for Clint’s sight to reach a good enough standard for communication. 

_I’ll go to Stark as soon as I can,_ he signed. 

_That will be a while,_ Bucky informed him. _He left for Malibu this morning, won’t be back for about a week._

Clint dropped his forehead on to his arms, letting out a frustrated sigh. Bucky’s metal hand ran across his shoulders, pressing firmly at the base of his neck as he massaged Clint’s muscles. He hummed, hoping it sounded happy. _What are we going to do until he gets back?_ he asked. 

Bucky stared into his mug as he thought. _We could go to the range,_ he suggested, _or the gym. It’s been ages since I pinned you to a mat._ There was a wicked glint in his eyes, and Clint swatted at him ineffectually. 

_Range. But if Agent Robinson comes in to tell me to put headphones on, go easy on her this time._

His immediate response was an eye roll, and as Clint stood to put away his mug, Bucky signed back: _I still maintain that I did not revert to ‘the Winter Soldier face’, whatever that may be._ Clint laughed. Or at least, it felt like he did. 

Being on the range was easy. He was used to taking his aids out during this time, focusing instead on the pull of his bow, the feel of the arrows between his fingers, and watching them strike the target exactly where he wanted. It was an added comfort knowing Bucky was nearby – Clint couldn’t remember the last time they’d been on the range together (it wasn’t the Agent Robinson incident, fortunately), and he found it amusing to see the looks on the faces of the younger agents as the Winter Soldier and Hawkeye systematically went through target after target without breaking a sweat. 

Some time passed before he felt a solid hand on his shoulder, and he turned to see Bucky stood with Agent Coulson. He raised an eyebrow, setting down his bow as Phil signed to him (he was fairly sure Coulson was the only agent he knew who was fluent in sign language. It was both a blessing and a curse). _You and Agents Morse and Wilson are required for a briefing,_ he explained. _Something has come up and Fury wants you on the roster._

Clint scowled. _I’m not exactly in the best condition for a mission right now,_ he pointed out, knowing that Phil would understand what he meant. 

_I’m sure Sergeant Barnes wouldn’t mind acting as a translator._

Bucky, who had been following the conversation, smiled. _Not a problem._

Sensing that he wasn’t getting out of this, Clint relented with a sigh, and collected his arrows up before trudging up to the briefing room. Just as he predicted, Bobbi and Sam greeted him verbally upon his arrival, and he didn’t even wait to see Bucky correct them. He sat in an empty seat, turning it so that he could more or less see everyone, and threw a glare at Fury that let him know he wasn’t pleased about the situation. Fury sent him one back that read ‘tough shit’, and he slumped down in his seat. 

It was, as far as he was concerned, a pretty disastrous briefing. Though Bucky was signing everything that was being said, he couldn’t indicate who was speaking at the time he was translating, so when either Sam or Bobbi asked a question Clint had to look to see who was speaking, and by the time he turned his attention back to Bucky the conversation had moved on without him, and he was lost. He put up with it for all of thirty minutes before deciding it was a waste of time and zoning out. Whenever Bucky tried to get him to re-focus, he pretended for a couple of minutes before going back to tracing imaginary patterns on the wall behind his head. 

Their dismissal couldn’t have come any sooner; though Bobbi and Sam smiled at him as they left, he couldn’t find it in himself to give them genuine ones in reply. He was about to leave himself when Bucky tapped him on the shoulder, signalling for him to wait as he went and talked to Coulson. Clint leant against the wall, absently flicking through the grey plastic folder with all the mission information (seriously, why couldn’t he just have been given this in the first place?) until Bucky reappeared in his line of vision, indicating they could leave with a tilt of his head. 

_So I got Fury to give us access to the security recording of the meeting,_ he told him when they were in the lift. _You can listen to it in full once we’ve got your hearing sorted._

_Great. So in, what, a week? Thought Coulson said we had five days to prepare._ From Bucky’s expression he knew he was scowling, but he couldn’t help it. Frustration was already deeply rooted inside him, and he doubted it would go away any time soon. 

_Hey, I’m trying to help here._

_I know, and I’m sorry, but it still doesn’t take away the fact that I can’t hear a goddamn thing. If it was just you and me, I wouldn’t mind so much, but when Fury insists I sit through meetings I can’t even follow, it gets to me. You know how useless I feel? How lost I get? I know you were there, and you helped a bit, but it’s when lots people start adding their own voices and everything becomes muddled that I just think, ‘what’s the point?’. And to top it all off, I still won’t be able to hear by the time we’re due to leave, so why waste my time – and your time – like that, when I won’t even be of any use in the field?_

Clint dropped his hands, turning away from Bucky until the lift doors opened and he strode out. He assumed they were going back to the tower, and was proved right when Bucky subtly took the lead and headed to the car park. They were silent for the whole ride back, and it was only when they were back in their apartment that Bucky turned him around and made him watch what he had to say. _I know you get frustrated,_ he began, _and I’m sorry that there wasn’t more I could do in the meeting, but I think Coulson and I came up with a solution._ When Clint didn’t move, he continued; _I got you the recordings because I believe you’ll be able to hear again sooner than you think. Coulson gave me the names of a couple of scientists who he’s pretty sure can help us out – one’s an engineer, the other’s a biologist or something._ He grinned. _We’re going to give them Tony’s blueprints and see what they can come up with._

Blinking for a few seconds, Clint tried to work out if he’d misread Bucky’s signs or not. _So, what you’re saying is…?_

_These guys can have you a new pair of hearing aids by tomorrow. Coulson promised to push them. You’ll be op-ready at the same time as Bobbi and Sam._

Processing that information, realising that he wouldn’t have to suffer being useless on an op, Clint half-threw himself around Bucky, grinning when he felt him laughing beneath him. He thanked him with a kiss – a long one, just to make it clear how much he appreciated Bucky’s efforts. _You’re the best boyfriend in the world._

Bucky smirked. _So I’ve been told._ But his expression softened as he said, _You’re more than welcome._

_So who’re these scientists we have to find?_

He shrugged. _They’re called FitzSimmons._ Clint raised an eyebrow, doubting he’d got that right, but Bucky swore that was what Coulson had said. _Apparently everyone calls them that. You want to go find them now?_

_God, yes._ The sooner he could hear again, the better (and the sooner they could settle their newly-placed bet on whether FitzSimmons could out-design Tony Stark).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Could you maybe do more about Clint's deafness???"  
> Please note - I know very little about deafness, besides what others have said about it. Hope I've got it at least halfway accurate. But in regards to dialogue, I'm laying down the 'creative liberties' card and tiptoeing away... (sorry!)


	11. The Stark Inquisition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's prompted so far - one third of the way through!
> 
> What I am going to ask is that if you've already put in multiple prompts, please refrain from giving me anymore - as much as I would love them, it's just so that others can have a say in this story, too. :-)
> 
> (If you're really desperate, put it in my Ask box/PM me, and I'll see what I can come up with. Please bear in mind: I'm a bit bogged-down writing-wise, so don't expect instant responses.)

“Alright, I give up. Something’s going on with you two, and I want to know what it is. In fact, I’d go so far as to say I deserve to know, what with the whatever-it-is happening in my tower.” 

Clint and Bucky, having just entered the S.H.I.E.L.D conference room, both stopped in their tracks as Tony Stark rounded on them quite suddenly. Behind him the rest of the team also turned to stare in their direction, a mixture of confusion and alarm. With nine pairs of eyes suddenly stuck to them, Clint could feel the discomfort radiating of Bucky next to him, though he maintained eye contact with Tony. “Mind being a little bit clearer with your accusations there Stark? You might not get an explanation otherwise.” 

Tony gestured between them. “The two of you – what are you doing? Don’t think I haven’t seen the signs: you always arrive at places more or less together, one of you says something and the other finds it funny, you’ve eye-rolled at each other way too many times –” 

“We all eye-roll at each other where you’re concerned,” Natasha pointed out. 

“This isn’t about me.” 

“For once,” Carol muttered. Jan smothered a giggle. 

“Uh, am I the only one who’s concerned here?” Tony asked the team. “We have two super-spies up to what is undoubtedly no good behind our backs, and – ignoring any past actions that may have involved trying to harm one or more of us – it’s highly likely that I am – or, we are, the target of their secret whatever-it-is. So I, for one, would like some answers.” He folded his arms, failing to notice Steve’s sudden interest in a pencil, Bruce’s lack of interest in the situation, Natasha’s eye-conversation with Bucky, and Sam’s head dropping into his hands. 

“What makes you think we’re up to anything?” Clint replied, covering for Bucky. The four teammates who knew had been sworn to secrecy – they weren’t about to blurt it out to the table, and he wasn’t going to either. No, just like every time before, this was Bucky’s choice. 

“I know spies,” Tony said, “and I know you two. Admittedly, I know you better than Sputnik, Barton, but that doesn’t mean –” 

“What did you just call me?” It was the first thing Bucky had said since entering the conference room, and Clint could hear the tension in his voice. He didn’t need to see him to know that he probably looked a little pissed. 

Mercifully, Tony picked up on his displeasure as well. “JARVIS, add Sputnik to the list of things I’m not allowed to call Agent Barnes.” 

“Already done, sir.” 

“Look, just ‘cause we’re spies doesn’t mean jack,” Clint argued. “Natasha’s a spy. You think she’s up to something too?” Natasha looked unimpressed at being implicated in the predicament, but aside from a raised eyebrow she didn’t react. 

“If the Black Widow was up to something, I don’t think I’d notice,” Tony said. “You two though? If you’re trying to be sneaky, you’re failing spectacularly.” 

“Um, I’d be offended here guys,” Peter said from his upside-down position at the back of the room. 

“Oh, I’m offended,” Bucky growled. 

“Come on, now,” Hank interrupted. “Let’s not do anything stupid here.” 

Steve nodded. “Hank’s right; Tony, we’re here for a briefing, so why don’t you get us started? Bucky, Clint –” 

“There is no briefing.” 

Everyone blinked in unison. Steve frowned. “Excuse me?” 

“I said there is no meeting,” the billionaire repeated. “I wanted to know what Sniper One and Sniper Two were doing, and thought that a group presence would force a confession out of them.” He folded his arms. “We’re not leaving until we have answers.” 

There was a collective sigh of frustration from the table. “You lied to us?” Jan asked in disbelief. “For this?” 

Bruce glanced between the three men with apprehension. “Tony –” 

“What the hell, Stark?” Clint moaned, seeing Bucky shift in his peripherals. “We’re not plotting anything against you! Why would we?” 

“I don’t know Clint, that’s why I’m asking.” 

“Yeah, well frankly, I think you’re being nosy.” 

“Paranoid’s probably a more accurate –” 

“Jesus Christ, no-one cares!” 

“Well I do, because you’ve got JARVIS being quiet about this too –” 

“You know, sometimes your AI feels like an invasion of privacy –” 

“What do you have to keep private?” 

“It’s called private for a reason!” 

“And that right there implies you have something to hide –” 

“We’re together!” Bucky suddenly shouted, and the whole room was swiftly engulfed by silence. He stepped forward into Tony’s space. “We’re together. Satisfied?” he asked sharply, eyes like daggers. “There’s no plot, no conspiracy against you or your computers, no traitors in your midst; just two people trying to keep their private lives private.” He threw his arms up. “Why is that so hard in this world?” And with that, he turned and stormed out of the conference room. 

“Bucky!” Clint watched him leave, knowing that following him was pointless. He sighed deeply as a commotion started around the table, and slipped out without looking back. In the corridor he checked the clock on his phone, setting a timer for fifteen minutes, and as he leant back against the wall he noticed Carol coming up to him slowly. He smirked. “Not taking a piece out of Stark for his arrogance?” 

She snorted. “Steve, Natasha and Jan have that covered between them.” Her body mirrored his as she took up position beside him. “Where’d he go?” 

“Gym, probably. He’ll go through a couple of punching bags, maybe another agent to help reign himself in. Either way, I’ll go check on him in a few minutes, talk him out of revenge too extreme.” 

Carol smiled. “You sound like you know him pretty well,” she observed. 

Clint turned to her. “Are you mad?” he asked. 

She quirked an eyebrow. “At you? Why would I be mad at you?” 

“For keeping it – us – under wraps,” he said with a shrug. 

“It’s a surprise,” she admitted slowly, “but not a bad one. Under different circumstances I think a lot more people would be smiling.” Clint laughed at that. 

When his timer went off some minutes later he left Carol to go and find Bucky, already working out what to say to whichever poor agent he’d inadvertently scared – but the gym was clean of any signs of demolition, and there were no palpitating trainees. Frowning, he left to check the range – also empty – and then the roof, where a figure paced back and forth against the skyline. He approached slowly, waiting for Bucky to make the first move. 

Eventually he stopped pacing, and seemingly deflated where he stood. “That could’ve gone better,” he said weakly. 

“Maybe,” Clint agreed, stepping closer now that Bucky had stilled. “No-one’s mad at us, though. It’ll probably take a while for the revelation to actually sink in.” 

Bucky nodded absently, squeezing the hand that Clint slipped into his flesh one. “So who just found out?” he asked tentatively. 

“Besides Tony? Hank, Jan, Pete and Carol. You know Jan’ll want to throw us a party now, right?” 

He gave a soft snort, shaking his head at the thought. “How long can we keep her at bay?” 

Clint flipped out his phone. “I’ll see if Hank can distract her. Or maybe Carol. She said congrats, by the way.” Bucky finally smiled at that, and he pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “We can handle this,” he promised. “It’ll all blow over in a few days.” 

“And Stark?” 

“Oh, he’ll get what’s coming to him.” A grin spread over his face. “He thinks we can’t plot without him knowing? Let’s prove him wrong.” The glint in Bucky’s eyes said he was looking forward to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt(s): "Starky getting a hint of what's going on!", 'the rest of the team finding out'.  
> I combined these two 'cause they were kinda similar. Hope both parties don't mind :-)


	12. Patch It Up

His apartment seemed quiet, even with the television on. Normally he found bad TV grossly absorbing, but the last few hours were an exception; nothing could hold his attention. After the extensive debrief he’d showered and changed, ordered dinner, eaten dinner, and tended to his equipment, but there was no denying that Clint’s mind was stuck in over-thinking mode, with only one thing on the agenda: the quietly-explosive argument he and Bucky had had not twelve hours ago. Their first ‘big fight’. 

Clint was adamant that what he’d done was right, just as Bucky was adamant that it had been wrong and was too stubborn to see past his own issues. When Steve had appeared, causing Bucky to end their discussion for fear of being found out, Clint was ashamed to admit it had made him a little angrier to see Bucky running away like that, even if he had agreed to secrecy in the first place; because as far as he was concerned, Steve could’ve made him see sense, and he was sure Bucky knew that. 

A sudden knock at the door snapped him out of his stormy thoughts with a jump, and he reluctantly paused whatever it was he hadn’t been watching to go and answer it. To find Bucky on the other side was surprise number two – he thought the other man would avoid him for a lot longer than twelve hours if he was anything like Natasha when angry (though this just confirmed to him that the Black Widow’s anger was still the second most terrifying long-lingering wrath to be faced with, surpassed only by Nick Fury). 

Shifting on the spot, Bucky cleared his throat. “Hi.” 

“Hi.” 

He glanced down the corridor. “I, uh… I guess we should talk.” 

“If you want,” Clint said as he stepped aside. Bucky took the invitation, and the door was closed softly behind them. 

There was a moment of silence as Clint waited for him to say something, noticing the way he twisted his hands together agitatedly, the metal fingers squeezing the real ones roughly. “I’m sorry,” he said eventually, “about... I shouldn’t have blown up at you the way I did.” 

Nodding, Clint folded his arms. “I’m sorry too. For… what I said.” 

“But you get it, right?” Bucky asked suddenly. “You understand why –” 

“I do, though I still think you’re overreacting.” 

“It was a –” 

“Yeah yeah, and that dragged up some Soviet memories – I know, Bucky, I said I get it.” Clint dared to close the distance between them, dropping his arms as he held Bucky’s gaze. “But you gotta let it go already.” 

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “You say that like it’s easy,” he said, tone low. 

The eye-roll happened on its own. “I never meant that… Okay look; you know about Barney, right?” 

“Your brother?” 

“Yeah. Not gonna lie, he’s a shitty brother at times. Most of the time, actually. But lately, he’s been in a bit of trouble, and he actually came to me for help. I could’ve kicked him to the kerb for all the fucked up things he’s done to me and people I care about, but instead I leant him a hand – not just because he’s blood, but because I let all that crap between us go. Hell, I’m not saying we don’t still argue about it if we’re together more than five minutes, but my point is –” 

“You moved on, I got that. But you also just said you still argue with him over stuff.” 

Clint sighed. “Bucky –” 

“This is what I was trying to say last night, Clint: there’s nothing you can compare my experiences to, nothing to make it easier to handle! And the more you try, the more you start sounding like Steve.” Closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose (again, with his metal fingers – didn’t that hurt?), Bucky turned and sat himself down on Clint’s couch, shoulders hunched as he rested his elbows on his knees. 

Reading the tension running through the other man’s body, Clint checked his frustration as he moved to join him. “Listen, Bucky,” he said softly. “I’m sorry that what I did brought up your past, okay? But it was the right thing, and you know it.” 

For a long time, Bucky stayed very still. It was as Clint began to get worried that he let out a slow breath and opened his eyes again, shoulders still tight. “I’m still seeing a shrink,” he said without warning, eyes darting to Clint before refocusing on his hands, fingers again twisting around each other. “It’s why I can’t do Wednesdays.” 

Confused, the archer couldn’t help but frown a little. “Okay… Um, thanks for sharing, but why –” 

“I knew you were right, but the part of me that was mad at myself for letting it get to me was also the part of me that was trying to prove that I was better than what I was in the memories, and that all added up to you being in the wrong, and I know that doesn’t exactly make sense but that’s why I’m still going to these stupid evaluations –” 

“Bucky, hey – take it easy,” Clint interrupted, resting a hand on his arm to get him to stop. “I don’t care that you can’t make Wednesdays,” he said, a smile on his lips when Bucky looked up at him in confusion. “If you still need some time out to get the last few kinks in your head smoothed over, I’m not gonna complain. In fact, I’d…” He shifted a little, feeling a slight warmth creep up into his cheeks. “I’d want to help.” 

Watching the anxiety drain out of Bucky was like watching a child’s paddling pool deflate, the only difference being the sad smile and the deep gratitude in his eyes. “Thanks,” he said quietly, and Clint squeezed his arm in return. Nothing happened for a few seconds, and then Bucky broke the silence. “I should get going,” he said, standing up and gesturing vaguely at the television. “You looked like you were in the middle of something when I came by.” 

“Wait.” As he passed, Clint reached up and caught his t-shirt. Bucky looked back at him expectantly. “I heard Tony moaning at you for not watching ‘Dog Cops’. I have the whole season on here if you want to, y’know… stay?” 

The smile returned to Bucky’s face again, this time without any sadness. “Sure.” 

By episode three the two of them were sat as if someone had glued them together from their shoulders to their toes, and Bucky’s fingers weren’t twisted with his own metal ones this time. It was also the point that Clint realised his apartment had stopped feeling so empty and hollow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "The first time they made up after a fight!"
> 
> If anyone's interested, I have the fight in question already planned out - all I need is a prompt... ;-)


	13. Learn and Re-Learn

“JARVIS, you know where Agent Barnes is right now?” 

“He is currently in his own quarters, Agent Barton.” 

“Thanks man.” 

“I suppose you would like me to engage my privacy mode upon your arrival?” 

“Dude, if you weren’t a computer I’d owe you one.” 

“Several, probably.” 

Ignoring the last comment, Clint quickly made his way up the tower to Bucky’s apartment. Having just come back from an assignment on the opposite side of the country, he wanted to catch up on everything that he’d missed, both S.H.I.E.L.D-wise and personal-wise; but when he stopped outside the door to the exclamation of “Motherfucker!” – which had to be loud if even he could hear it through a few centimetres of thick wood – he became a little concerned. He knocked anyway, taking note of the terse “It’s open,” that followed. 

“Someone sounds cranky,” he mused with a smile, closing the door behind him. “Miss me, soldier?” 

Sat at his dining table, Bucky turned round to look at him, a slow grin spreading over his lips. Clint didn’t miss the change in expression from ‘pissed’ to ‘relieved’, though. “Well aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Bucky murmured. 

Clint’s smile grew as he watched him stand. “Who’s got sore eyes?” he joked, stepping forward to meet him halfway. The feel of Bucky’s lips on his, the smooth-rough touch of his flesh hand on his jaw, was what he’d been waiting for since leaving for Salem all those weeks ago, and was so much better than he remembered. Judging by the way Bucky kissed him back, firm and hungry and just a little bit filthy, he was thinking the same thing. “Reunion sex?” 

Bucky stilled, blowing out a frustrated sigh that made Clint’s skin tingle where hot breath ghosted over him. “I can’t.” 

“Why not?” 

Stepping back he gestured at his metal arm, which looked stiff at his side. “We got a call out to Atlanta a couple of days ago. Hulk got thrown into a building, some of it landed on the arm. Stark finished this one this morning, but it’s, uh…” He grimaced. “Slow to warm up.” 

Clint processed all of that, quickly checking Bucky for any other signs of injury. “Well that explains ‘motherfucker’, I guess.” 

“You heard that?” 

“I heard it.” 

Bucky sent a glare back towards the table. “They’re making me do these stupid tasks to get it to work,” he explained bitterly, “but I can’t even do the simplest things. It’s bullshit!” Clint raised an eyebrow at him, and he led him over to the scene of a small crime: a mug lay in pieces by one of the kitchen cupboards, which had also been wounded when said mug had impacted against it – quite forcefully, by the looks of things. “I couldn’t even get a pencil into fucking cup.” 

“Who’s making you do physical therapy?” 

“S.H.I.E.L.D is.” He threw his arms up, the metal one moving reluctantly and out of sync with its biological counterpart. “I’m off duty until it’s fully functional. Which, at this rate, will be never.” 

Recognising that Bucky was unnecessarily cross with himself, Clint gestured back towards the table and got him sat down. “Pencil in mug’s pointless,” he said. “You need to be doing something useful with it.” 

“Like what?” Bucky asked sullenly. 

“Well, it’s your motor functions you’re working on, right? How about trying some ASL?” 

He frowned. “ASL?” 

“Sign language.” 

“Oh.” Bucky looked down at his arm, then back at Clint, scepticism plain on his face. “You sure that’ll work?” 

Clint shrugged. “Worth a try, right? And better than taking out your frustration on a mug and cupboard.” 

“Stark can replace everything in here ten times over.” 

“Not the point. Come on, Buck,” he soothed, taking his warm hand between his own, rubbing the knuckles encouragingly. “This is a great opportunity. You get to work on using the arm again, and I have someone besides Coulson to talk to when I can’t hear what anyone’s saying.” 

“I’ve seen you communicate with Stark using his phone.” Clint gave him a look and he rolled his eyes. “Okay, fine, I’ll try it.” 

“Great,” he grinned, giving the hand he held a squeeze. “Only, don’t expect things to go smoothly at first.” 

“Yeah, I know, recovery over time and all that shit.” Bucky shot him a wry smirk. “You’re starting to sound like the docs.” 

“I’ll take that as a compliment to my worldly wisdom rather than a complaint about my realistic attitude.” That earned him a derisive snort, and he chuckled. “Alright. We’ll start with the alphabet; this is ‘a’.” He held his right hand up in a fist, watching as Bucky struggled to copy it with his left. “There you go. Now ‘b’.” 

“You do realise that technically I’m learning this backwards, right?” the soldier grumbled as he opened his fist out jerkily. 

Clint shrugged. “So we’ll spend some of our quality time sorting that out. Right now, it’s not important – just as long as it speeds up your recovery. This is ‘c’.” 

Brow pinching as he forced his fingers to bend, Bucky mumbled, “This feels like re-learning how to use my arm altogether.” 

“Well how did you do it in Russia?” Clint asked without thinking. 

Bucky’s eyes dropped to his lap. “I slept, and they… programmed.” 

Mentally berating himself for bringing up the touchy subject, Clint nudged his knee. “Show me a-b-c.” 

It took two hours for Bucky to learn and, somewhat roughly, sign the whole alphabet left-handed. There were times he came close to snapping, angry at the way his hand refused to co-operate with his thoughts and disappointed that he couldn’t form the shapes and gestures, but Clint was there to reassure and calm him each time he let slip a growl or a cuss. He managed a small smile by the end of his first full run-through, though, and Clint for one was happy with his progress. Tired, Bucky pushed himself up from the table, good hand running over his face and through his hair. “How long did this take you?” 

“Learning ASL?” Clint shrugged. “A few months, but I was having crash-courses and practising fluidly every day.” He followed Bucky up from the table, taking hold of his wrists and kissing him sweetly. “You’re doing well, Buck. Any progress is better than no progress.” 

Rolling his eyes again, Bucky snorted. “Either you were undercover as a therapist in Salem or you’re turning into one at my expense.” 

“Negativity is a bad –” 

“So that reunion sex you mentioned?” 

“That’s a diversion tactic.” Bucky’s kiss clearly translated into a promise of dirtier things to come, tongue running along Clint's bottom lip as it was held between sharp but gentle teeth that were slow to release, and he was left breathless when Bucky eventually let him go. “A damn good one… Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Clint teaches Bucky sign language to help with his physical therapy (either Bucky's bionic arm needed recalibration after a nasty fight or it had to be replaced altogether)."  
> Accidentally first wrote this with Clint teaching British Sign Language - of which I know the alphabet - and had to go research American Sign Language specially. BSL is so much easier, just sayin... ;-)


	14. Decidedly Impressed

From where he was perched above the makeshift firing range, Clint watched with intrigue as Bucky stared at the target, rifle held loosely in his hands, taking deep, steady breaths. In one quick, fluid motion he brought the barrel up, sighted, and fired, grinning with satisfaction as a hole appeared at the edge of the centre spot. It was a grin of triumph, with a hint of smugness. “How about that?” 

“Split second shooting, not bad.” Clint shrugged. “I could do better.” 

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?” 

Pulling his bow into his lap, he chewed his lip thoughtfully. “JARVIS, push it a little further back, would you?” 

“Someone’s confident,” the assassin smirked as the target was moved accordingly. The two of them had Tony Stark’s Virtual Scenario room all to themselves, and, in what Jan would have called a ‘typical display of macho-ism’, were trying to show off to one another. It was the first time they’d been alone together since admitting their feelings (or rather, since Clint had forced a confession from Bucky), and Clint was enjoying himself. They’d had the range at S.H.I.E.L.D to themselves a couple of times, but it was nothing compared to the privacy and flexibility of the VS room – Bucky was almost a different man here, and in a very appealing way. 

Standing up on the platform JARVIS made for him, Clint slipped an arrow into position and gestured down to the target. “I’ll backflip and hit centre,” he said casually. 

Bucky snorted. “Clint, I know you’re good, but seriously? Can you even do a backflip?” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

He shrugged. “You’re no Natasha.” 

Ignoring the flicker of jealousy in his stomach, Clint flexed his fingers on the grip and ran his gaze over the target, taking in the distance to it, the angle he was at, and how far away the ground was. He turned so he was facing away from it, then glanced down at Bucky. “How about a bet?” 

Tilting his head sideways, Bucky folded his arms. “Like what?” 

“I hit dead centre and you buy my drink at the next social.” 

“And if you don’t?” 

“I’ll pose naked with that rifle of yours. Privately, that is.” 

For a moment Clint wondered if he’d pushed a little too far, but then a smile graced Bucky’s face and he nodded. “Alright. Give it your best shot.” 

Rolling his eyes at the pun, Clint took a deep breath and gripped his bow tightly. He pushed off the platform hard, watching carefully as the world went upside down and releasing the arrow as soon as he saw the target. He straightened up in time to plant his feet on the ground, only slightly off balance (he hadn’t done that in a while), and quickly looked over his shoulder to see what had happened. Beside him, Bucky groaned. “I hope you know my order, old man.” 

“Don’t know why I doubted you,” he muttered. Clint chuckled as he made his way over to the bench, clapping him on the metal arm as he passed. “Seriously though, where does a spy pick up a move like that?” 

Clint set his bow down, unscrewing a bottle of water. “I learnt it in the circus,” he deadpanned. Behind him Bucky laughed, and as he drank he waited for the realisation to sink in. 

“You always say that… Wait, are you – you aren’t kidding?” 

“Reel it in, JARVIS.” 

“Were you actually in the circus?” Bucky asked again above the whir of the target. 

Clint waited for it to stop in front of them, counting down the seconds until the board would grind to a halt and there’d be nothing but silence. A loud clunk rang out across the room, its echo fading quickly into the space. “Engage privacy mode.” JARVIS confirmed the request, and he turned to face Bucky. “My brother and I ran away from the orphanage when I was eight, and he got us work with the circus that happened to be in town at the time. We travelled with them, and when one of the main acts got interested in me he took me under his wing. I was given a bow and a set of arrows, and pretty soon I was part of the show.” He shrugged. “Not much more to it than that.” 

Bucky stood with his hands on his hips, blinking at him. “And?” 

“And what?” 

“So you just stayed with the circus until S.H.I.E.L.D picked you up?” 

“Of course not.” 

“Then what happened in between?” 

“I left.” 

“Why?” 

“Does it matter?” 

“I’m just curious – most kids dream of joining the circus at that age. To be able to say you’ve done that is actually kind of cool.” 

Clint turned away. “Yeah, well most kids don’t know dream from reality.” 

Either he’d said that more harshly than he’d intended, or Bucky had realised he struck a nerve, because the next thing Clint knew was that he was moving in a little closer, reaching across with his real hand to brush the back of his knuckles lightly. “Sorry,” he murmured. “Didn’t realise it wasn’t a good thing.” 

Shaking his head, Clint sighed. “It wasn’t all bad, it’s just… I made some bad choices back then, you know?” He swallowed. “Can’t help but wonder if my life would’ve been less painful if I’d just stayed at the orphanage.” 

“We all think like that sometimes,” Bucky said softly, leaning in to rest his forehead against Clint’s temple, metal hand resting lightly at the base of his neck. “Some more than others.” 

“Do you wish things had been different?” he whispered. “That someone else had gone on that mission in your place?” 

“No,” was the firm answer, and when he met Bucky’s eyes questioningly he continued: “If it hadn’t been me, it could just as easily have been someone else. I wouldn’t wish that life on any one of the men we served with.” Clint nodded in understanding. “And anyway – if we hadn’t made those decisions, neither of us would be here now.” 

Seeing the twinkle overcoming the pain in Bucky’s eyes, Clint felt a smile growing across his face. “Yeah,” he agreed. “There is that.” He closed the short gap between their lips, relishing in the comfort of another body against his, the light squeeze of Bucky’s hand and his still tentative response. This, at least, was one decision he hoped he never regretted. 

“So,” Bucky said between breaths. “Did you have a spangly outfit?” 

“One you will never see as long as I live,” he told him, kissing him more insistently and hoping the message of ‘shut up and make out with me’ was getting through. 

“Sirs,” JARVIS said, startling Bucky out of the kiss. “Mr Stark is approaching.” 

“Thanks JARVIS,” Clint said, grinning as Bucky put some distance between them both. “Disengage privacy mode.” He was packing away the bow, Bucky a few metres away with his rifle, when Tony strode in. 

“Hey, Sniperbros – ever heard of sharing? You two aren’t the only ones in this circus, you know.” 

“Yeah, you never let us forget,” Clint retorted, shooting a smirk at Bucky, who rolled his eyes in response as Stark continued to gripe at them. Was moving into the Avengers tower a good decision? Eh. Probably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Bucky discovering about Clint's circus past and being impressed and all".
> 
> (OMG have you seen The Winter Soldier trailer?!?! 8D 8D 8D May is too far away...!!!)


	15. Bear-able

When Clint first saw the picture, his first question for Bucky was why, in the entire two years of their relationship, had he never seen it before? Bucky’s response was to roll his eyes and drawl “Why d’you think?” 

“I can’t believe you hid this from me!” 

“Wouldn’t say I hid it –” 

“Who else knows besides Jan?” 

Bucky let out a long-suffering sigh. “Probably Toro, the Young Avengers, wouldn’t put it past Tony – so I guess everyone.” 

Clint pouted. “And they only showed it to me now?” 

He scowled. “Maybe Jan didn’t get the memo.” 

“But why was there a memo in the first place?” 

Giving him a pointed look, the spy explained: “The idea of you, Clint Barton, in possession of a stuffed bear wearing my comic-equivalent’s outfit is the source of some of my better nightmares. I’d like to not see it come true.” 

“It’s a teddy bear made in your honour, Buck!” Clint pressed, waving the picture on his phone of said bear in Bucky’s face. “Think how many kids feel safer at night because they’re cuddled up with this little guy.” 

Bucky looked away. “Yeah, and you know the irony of that,” he muttered darkly. 

Shoulders dropping, Clint sat himself down close to Bucky, slipping his arms around his waist and resting his chin on the half-metal shoulder. “Actually, I disagree,” he murmured. “You’re better than any damn bear I ever had.” 

“Right,” Bucky snorted. “’Cause all your bears woke you up night after night trying to kill you.” 

Refraining from informing him that he’d only ever had one bear in his childhood (and that it had been torn in half shortly after his arrival at the orphanage), Clint huffed in his ear. “It’s been three weeks since your last screamer, Buck.” 

“Still,” Bucky said after a quiet moment, shaking his head at the phone. “You are not getting a Bucky Bear as long as I’m still breathing. Got it?” 

Clint relented; until his next solo assignment two weeks later. He was in the airport, passing time in the shops while he waited for his gate to open, when he saw it – or rather, an entire shelf of them: Bucky Bears, all red and blue and domino-masked and fuzzy, and he couldn’t resist. When the pay-desk attendant gave him a funny look, he explained it away as a present for a nephew, but wasn’t too sure he managed to tramp down his excitement when the bag was handed over to him. Despite the temptation, he resisted pulling the bear out during the long flight to Europe, but as soon as he was inside his S.H.I.E.L.D-paid hotel room – moderate three-star place, with tasteful décor and a half-decent view – Bucky Bear was out and de-tagged before anyone could say mountain grizzly. 

“Don’t worry,” he assured the toy, eyeing the balcony thoughtfully. “He can’t do anything bad to you until I get back – and by that time, he’ll love you just as much as I do.” Grabbing his phone Clint made his way outside, Bucky Bear in hand, then positioned himself appropriately, making sure to get as much of the old Austrian city on-screen as possible. Holding the bear up and pulling a face, he hit the camera button, quickly sending it to Bucky (and Jan, ‘cause she’d be delighted) with a casual ‘I’ve arrived and I’m not dead yet’ message. The reply came seconds later. 

**Bucky:** _Wtf have you done?!_

**Me:** _Didn’t want to get lonely in bed ;-)_

**Me:** _You’re still my fav Bucky <3_

When it became apparent he wasn’t getting a reply, angry or otherwise, Clint gave in and prepped himself for his mission, pausing only to read Jan’s response ( **Jan:** _Aawww, he’s so CUTE!! Hope the real Bucky doesn’t get jealous ;D xx_ ) before the sun dipped below the horizon and he decided to turn in. He thought about sending a picture of him and the bear in bed to Bucky, but thought maybe that was a bit… strange. 

From that moment on, Bucky Bear was taken all around Clint’s assignment locations; he found the toy helped him blend in as a regular tourist, and gave him a good excuse to take silly photos of himself and the bear in front of this landmark or that attraction, and each one he sent to Bucky back home. As it was a Level Five mission, he couldn’t directly speak to anyone back on American soil, so the photos were the only communication he had with Bucky for the two and a half weeks he was gone (one-sided as they were). Naturally, when he returned, it was the first point of discussion. 

“I can’t believe you bought the stupid bear.” 

Clint smirked. “It’s like I told you: I was missing you, and he was the next best thing.” 

Bucky cringed. “Please don’t tell me you slept with it?” When Clint nodded, he groaned and covered his eyes. 

“Come on, Buck, don’t be like that!” Clint laughed, opening up his suitcase and pulling the bear out. “He’s harmless, see? And I promise, I didn’t let him anywhere intimate; he knows you’re the only Bucky for me.” 

“You’re really – That’s just – I don’t even know.” 

Faltering slightly, Clint looked down at the bear, playing with the edges of the felt domino mask absently. “So, uh… Did you get the pictures?” 

“… Yeah.” 

“You didn’t reply to any of them.” 

“I know,” Bucky said softly. “I’m sorry.” 

Clint sighed. “Look, if you’re really that upset, I’ll get rid of the bear. I mean, it’s just a toy, right? It’s for kids, not secret agents.” 

When he dared to look back up again, Bucky had taken a few steps closer. He was a lot warmer than the teddy bear, even with a good few inches between them. “You don’t have to do that,” he assured him. 

“Seriously?” 

He let out a heavy sigh. “Sure. I mean, if there was a Hawk-bear or something like that, I can’t say I wouldn’t… buy one myself.” 

Chuckling, Clint picked up on the idea; “We could have a whole teddy bear roster: a Hulk Bear, an Iron Bear, a Cap-bear –” 

“I knew you’d eventually go crazy on one of these solo missions.” Bucky stopped him from retorting with a kiss, cleverly reminding Clint that, while he’d had a Bucky of sorts with him in Austria, he hadn’t had a Bucky he’d been able to do things like this with, and that they’d both spent a very long time missing each other. Bucky Bear was left guarding the door while they fixed that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "How about something on the BuckyBear theme? Clint finds out about the bears, hijinks (of a sexy nature? who knows) ensue."
> 
> I want a Bucky Bear :-(


	16. Not by Halves

“AIM part two just hit the North Side, Cap.” 

“Iron Man, Winter Soldier – you got this?” 

“Already there.” 

“Alright Terminator, let’s give ‘em hell.” 

“Stark, would knocking you round the head make you less obnoxious?” 

“Probably. It may also give me brain damage, so I think it would be a bad idea for everyone if you gave in to your carnal, half-robotic desires.” 

“I am not a fucking cyborg!” 

“You mean you actually know what –” 

Frowning at the sudden cut-off, Clint tapped his aids. It seemed he wasn’t the only one who was confused; “Iron Man?” Steve called. “Iron Man, you still there? Winter Soldier?” 

“Their comms are down,” Coulson informed them. “We’ve also lost track of their vitals, but their trackers are still showing. The area they were clearing has lost all power.” 

“Could be an EMP,” Hank suggested. 

“That means they’re in trouble. Hawkeye, Ms Marvel,” Steve said, “get them out of there. Quickly!” 

“Understood,” Carol responded, and Clint scanned the skies to see her taking off not too far away. 

“Going my way?” he called, and she swooped down to pick him up off the roof he’d been stationed on, soon dropping him onto the ground at the factory’s North entrance; then he was firing off a net arrow, snagging his own bunch of AIM cronies and starting a mini frenzy of panic and firing. He and Carol quickly worked their way inside, where Tony and Bucky had been attempting to reach the core of the second group, and arrived just in time. 

Kicking open the doors to what looked like a canteen area, Clint let off an explosive arrow before ducking behind the upturned tables Bucky had tucked himself against. “Where’s Stark?” he asked, and Bucky jerked his head ahead of them. An Iron Man-shaped figure lay unmoving in the middle of the floor. “Ah, shit.” 

“EMP took the suit out,” Bucky explained, “among other things.” 

Clint glanced down and saw his metal arm resting uselessly at Bucky’s side. “It’s not EMP-proof?” 

“Guess who made it.” He snorted. 

“I have a plan,” Carol said, appearing beside them as Bucky fired a few rounds off to keep AIM away from Tony. “Hawkeye, you have any smoke arrows left?” 

“Think I packed a spare, yeah.” 

“Let it fly, then you help the Soldier out and I’ll grab Iron Man.” 

“Wait,” Bucky said. “The second core for their cannon’s straight through those doors.” He waved his gun towards the opposite side of the room. “Two of us can make it across there easy enough.” 

Clint raised an eyebrow. “This isn’t going to be another Luxembourg, is it?” 

“I wish.” 

“No way,” Carol was saying, shaking her head. “You arm’s down Barnes. It’s too risky.” 

Nocking a smoke arrow, Clint flashed her a grin. “Don’t sweat it Carol, we got this. You take care of Stark.” 

“Hawkeye –” 

“We’ll be fine. Trust us.” Before she could argue further, he stood up and fired the smoke arrow. Almost immediately Bucky shot up and over the tables, a knife glinting in his working hand, and as the sound of AIM goons falling to the floor started sounding out across the canteen Clint sent a pointed look in Carol’s direction. “See?” 

Carol sighed, jumping forward to grab Tony. “Help me get him to the doors?” By the time they’d dragged him the few metres to the exit (ignoring his pleas to watch the paintwork), the smoke had cleared a little, and they could see Bucky taking care of the disoriented AIM soldiers as if there wasn’t a dead weight hanging off his left shoulder. He was somehow still using it to deflect bullets, getting close enough to the yellow-clad men that they couldn’t fire at him without mowing each other down in the process. His knife was making quick work of them too, flashing as he whipped it back and forth and flipped it round to switch his grip, all the while perfectly balanced and focused. “You know, sometimes your boyfriend scares me a little,” Carol deadpanned. 

Laughing loudly, Clint picked out another arrow and joined the fray, coming up to Bucky’s vulnerable side and keeping his back to the metal arm. It took them a few minutes to work their way to the faintly-glowing double doors, but once they were inside it took one explosive arrow, six normal arrows and one well-wielded knife to put an end to the second AIM group that had overrun the factory. As extraction was called out over comms, Clint relayed the information to Bucky and the two of them slumped down against the wall. 

“You know what?” Bucky said as he tried to catch his breath. “Think that was on a par with Luxembourg.” 

Clint rolled his eyes. “Why does everyone remember these things differently to me?” 

Dirty fingers brushed at something on his temple. “You’re bleeding.” 

In return, he lightly prodded a shallow bullet wound in Bucky’s right side. “So are you.” Bucky pulled a face, and Clint nudged his arm. “Don’t worry, I’ll patch you up on the jet.” 

“Same,” he promised, smiling at him wearily before gently pressing a kiss to his injured temple. 

Back on the jet, they’d managed to get Tony out of his suit, and the genius billionaire playboy philanthropist was in full-rant mode about the damage AIM had done. “I mean, it’s like they know how much work I’m going to have to put into repairs on this. I’ll have to completely re-work the interior electronics of almost every single component, not to mention re-install JARVIS and make sure there aren’t any blown-out circuits within the framework. And now I’ll have to make modifications to accommodate an EMP back-up in both this and Barnes’ arm –” 

“Don’t bother,” Bucky told him, “I promised FitzSimmons they could have a go at making one if yours conked out on me.” 

Tony blinked at him. “FitzSimmons?” he repeated. “You don’t want to do that.” 

“I already promised them, Stark.” 

“But you should know that I’d make something infinitely better suited to your needs and style. I’ve been using your specs for months.” 

“They got very excited at the prospect. You really want me to make FitzSimmons get all upset and disappointed?” 

“Cruel man, Tony,” Sam commented, shaking his head disapprovingly. 

Tony narrowed his eyes, jabbing a finger at Clint. “You said you’d never go to them again.” 

First aid kit in his lap, Clint concentrated on threading a sewing needle as he replied, “Bucky just took out a third of the goon squad that KOed you in a single move with one arm. I say he gets go to whoever he wants for a new one and you should be grateful your precious suit is still intact for you to play with later.” He slapped Jan a hi-five as Tony went to sulk on the other side of the jet, leaning in to start mending the hole in Bucky’s side when Carol appeared in his peripheral vision. 

“So what happened in Luxembourg?” 

The two men froze. Swallowing, Bucky told her, “Maybe it’s best you don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "something in which Bucky's arm bothers him? Either the metal one and he shows that he's terrifyingly capable even with one functional ram, or the flesh-and-blood one and he's worried about the injury not healing properly?"


	17. Whisper, Whisper

There was a well-known correlation in S.H.I.E.L.D that went like this: the lower the agent’s access level, the more ridiculous the rumours and stories about this agent or that agent were going to get. In his time, Clint had heard a fair few about certain S.H.I.E.L.D ‘legends’ (apparently Agent Lebron deactivated sixteen IEDs in the space of five minutes using nothing but a knife and fork; that Atlas statue outside the Rockefeller centre had been rigged up as an electromagnet by Agent Xing to keep a prison van from being car-jacked; somehow, Agent May had rescued a bunch of other agents with the help of a small herd of horses and one penknife; and not forgetting Agent Harrison, who fought off several blue sharks without scuba gear to protect his unconscious, floating charge), but as he and Bucky made their way to Fury’s office – taking the broken-lift-route – there was only one person making the rounds today. 

“… America’s old sidekick…” 

“… survived a 1000ft drop…” 

“… -handedly took out an entire Nazi POW camp…” 

“… said that all the kids wanted to be like Bucky…” 

Glancing at Bucky out of the corner of his eye, Clint couldn’t help but smirk. He could only just hear the whispers that followed them down each corridor of HQ, which meant that Bucky would have no problem hearing the younger agents singing his praises. If the look on his face was anything to go by, he was lapping it up. 

“Think your head’ll still be able to fit in Fury’s office?” he joked as they entered a quieter staircase. 

“You’re just jealous it’s not you they’re gossiping about.” 

“Hey, I had my time. It was glorious, but I had to step aside.” 

“Why? Was the smug look starting to become imprinted on your face?” 

“No – had to make way for hot pieces of gossip like this latest big-shot they’re talking about.” 

“Yeah, I’ve heard about him. He sounds like a pretty incredible guy.” 

“Okay, seriously now. There’s a door just here, and you need to be able to get through the rest of them while you still can.” Bucky laughed, the sound echoing down the stairwell just as the whispers echoed down the corridor. 

“… kicked a Nazi in the backside with his hands tied…” 

“… as a kid spy who went behind enemy lines…” 

True to form, the rumours started getting more realistic as they climbed (and Clint was going to have words with Fury about putting more staircases in this place – one between each floor at opposite ends of the corridor just wasn’t funny), and neither Bucky nor Clint had a problem with this. Then they hit level five. 

“… sidekick gone bad…” 

“… in Russia, of all places…” 

“… equivalent of the Bogeyman to kids over…” 

Growing concerned, Clint slid a sideways glance at Bucky. The other man’s expression had changed; through the lower levels he’d been somewhat proud of the rumours, grin spreading with each tale of grandeur that reached their ears, but now it had hardened into smooth nonchalance. He even managed to flash a smile when he realised Clint was looking, and assured him in the next stairwell that he could handle that kind of talk. So, with the barest hint of trepidation, they carried on up. 

“… guy who took down an entire anti-Communist group in Hungary…” 

“… best killer in the business…” 

“… an ex-senator without leaving a trace…” 

Clint could see it in his eyes – these comments weren’t going unheard, but neither were they being ignored. “Just block them out, yeah? It’ll pass,” he muttered once they were alone, his hand automatically ghosting over Bucky’s hip. 

“I know,” Bucky replied in a low, tight voice. There was a deep hurt in his eyes, one Clint wished he could wipe out somehow, because God knew that if he had the time to stop and kiss away all of Bucky’s troubles and insecurities he damn well would. Instead, he settled for squeezing his hand reassuringly, and started up a meaningless conversation about nothing in particular as they stepped out onto the next level. 

“… involved in an attack on the leader of Serbia…” 

“… scientist’s wife and family to force him to leave…” 

“… good agent or not, he could still have triggers in that messed up –” 

The only warning Clint had was Bucky’s head snapping round in the direction of the last muttered words; acting just as quickly he grabbed him by the wrist, picking out the nearest door and forcefully pulling him into the blessedly empty room; Bucky started pacing as soon as Clint locked them in. 

“Asshole!” 

“Bucky –” 

“Did you hear what he said?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I bet they’ll all say stuff like that up here, won’t they?” 

“I don’t know, but –” 

“Does Hill know? Does Fury?” 

“Probably, but Buck, you just gotta ignore it –” 

“Oh, sure, that’s easy for you to say!” Bucky scoffed. “You can literally just tune people out when the bullshit starts flying.” 

“That doesn’t mean I don’t hear it to begin with.” 

“Right; but they don’t say half the stuff about you that they do me, huh?” 

Clint blew out a breath sharply. “We don’t have time for this, Bucky.” 

“They think I’m gonna turn on them, that I still have the Winter Soldier programming on the back-burner –” 

“Maybe, but –” 

“Next they’ll start saying stuff about me and the team!” 

“They won’t –” 

“They think they know what’s going on inside my head, Clint!” 

“Exactly!” Clint near-shouted, reaching forward and gripping Bucky’s shoulders firmly. “They have no idea what they’re talking about, Bucky. But you know the truth – you and me, and Steve, Tasha, perhaps even Coulson and Fury. And that is what matters here.” He moved his hands up, framing Bucky’s jaw, and stepped close enough that they were almost chest to chest. “Forget about the rumours,” he said softly. “I do.” 

Bucky breathed out shakily, anger and hurt still battling for dominance on his face. “Even when they’re true?” 

“Even when they’re true.” His thumbs stroked along Bucky’s cheekbones, trying to sooth the roiling emotions that were just beginning to fade. “Would it help if I kept talking?” 

A moment later, Bucky nodded. “Maybe a little,” he mumbled, fingers tugging at the tight fabric of Clint’s uniform. 

“Then that’s what I’ll do.” Clint leaned in for a quick kiss, taking Bucky’s hands in his own again as he smiled at him. “Ready? Just a couple more floors to go.” 

They made it to the end of level seven without any further incident. Despite Clint’s best efforts, Bucky still needed to take a minute in the stairwell at the end of level eight, and as he waited for him, a hand on resting lightly on his thigh, Clint added another (urgent) item to his ‘Talk to Fury’ list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Bucky going into a SHIELD office for some reason and being followed around by whispers behind his back: equal recognition of Captain America's sidekick and one of the most illusive bad guys. Eventually, it gets under his skin and Clint's there to the rescue (of the SHIELD people)?"
> 
> This was a toughie. Not totally 100% happy with it, but I've done all I can. :/


	18. The Importance of Being Poorly

Clint glared at the soup-heavy spoon hovering inches away from his face, then, when that seemed to be having little effect, turned to glare at the person holding said spoon. “I’m not sick, Steve.” 

“Look, Clint, there’s nothing wrong with taking a bit of time out to recover from the flu,” the super-soldier said from where he was sat opposite him at Clint’s kitchen bar. 

“I get that. I asked you to bring soup, not start feeding me as if I was incapable of doing so myself!” 

“Who’s feeding you and why isn’t it me?” a voice said from the door, and Clint rolled his eyes, dropping his forehead onto folded arms. Bucky came to stand behind him, snaking his arms round Clint’s waist and pressing a kiss to his currently-less-than-kissable hair. “How’s my grumpy little hawk?” 

Clint’s head was hot and felt like it was being squeezed by the Hulk. His eyes were puffy and annoyingly bleary, and he didn’t understand how Fury managed with one eye when he could hardly manage with two not-quite-working ones. Something was blocking his nose – could easily have been Mjölnir – and refused to budge. He was beginning to have an idea about how it felt to have an arc reactor lodged in your chest. Before he could say anything to the contrary, however, Steve was oh so graciously answering for him. 

“He looks like he’s coming down with flu. I’ve asked Bruce if he’ll come and –” 

“I’m not sick,” he said into the table. 

“So you’re telling me you’re feeling one-hundred per-cent?” 

Clint raised his head at that, glaring feebly thanks to his almost-streaming eyes. “I’m poorly.” Bucky snickered as Steve gave in and retracted the spoon. 

“I really don’t see that there’s a difference.” 

“Yes there is. If I was sick, I’d be in bed.” 

“Tell you what, Steve,” Bucky said, moving round them to dump a rucksack on Clint’s couch; “you leave Poorly over here to me and get back to more important stuff, like saving S.H.I.E.L.D from itself.” When Steve opened his mouth to protest, he added: “I have six words for you – Sam Wilson, Peter Parker, new recruits.” 

“Bye Clint. Hope you’re feeling better soon.” 

“Yeah, see ya,” Clint mumbled as the door closed behind a fast-exiting Steve Rogers. “Ugh, thank you,” he groaned. “I didn’t think he’d ever – oh, come on.” 

Bucky had taken Steve’s place, right up to the spoon-in-hand position. He also had a wicked smirk plastered on his face. “I will break out the airplane soundtrack.” Clint scowled, but gave in and let Bucky feed him, as childish and pathetic as it made him feel. It didn’t help that the soup, while tasting pretty damn good (because Steve Rogers wouldn’t settle for half-arsed if he could afford better), had cooled a bit since it was first offered to him, but before he could begin complaining again Bucky asked, “What’s the difference between sick and poorly then?” 

He shrugged. “There just is. What’s in the bag?” 

Bucky’s expression said ‘I see your diversion tactic and I raise you one eyebrow’. “You’ll see. I want an explanation first.” 

Huffing, Clint relented. “Being poorly means you’re not one-hundred per-cent, but you can still function like a normal human being. Being sick means you’re bed-ridden, which I am clearly not.” 

“Good to know, but not what I wanted an explanation for.” Bucky slapped a post-it note onto the surface between them. 

Blinking – and squinting a little – Clint was able to recognise it as the note that told Bucky he wasn’t at home because he was infectious, and had gone to his old place to wait it out between missions rather than spread it around the place they both shared. Confused, he looked back up. “What?” 

“I think this is one of those situations where you try to be sweet, but just end up being a bit of a dummy.” He tapped the note. “You really think quarantining yourself in your old apartment is gonna keep me ‘germ-free’?” 

“Thought it was worth a try. Didn’t realise guys from the forties had a thing about tracking down those who could take care of themselves and forcefully mother-henning them.” 

Bucky shrugged. “I did it for Steve. As for him, I think it’s instinct.” Clint chuckled, something that didn’t feel as pleasant as it could’ve done. “Anyway, from what I gathered, you asked for this.” 

He pouted. “I asked for soup, not nursemaid services.” 

“Should’ve thought of that before going straight to the super-nurse.” Stuck for a reply, Clint buried his face in his arms again as Bucky laughed. “Alright then, if you’re really not sick, I guess you wouldn’t mind coming on a run with me.” 

“Sure, I’ll be there. Spiritually.” When all that got him was more laughter, Clint raised his head again (Hulk was jumping up there now) and gave Bucky the best evils he could muster in his hardly-evil state. “Will you quit laughing at me? You’re supposed to be making me feel better.” 

Grinning, Bucky reached for the rucksack. “I know – that’s why I got you these.” He then proceeded to take out two video games, four movies, a pack of ready-made pancakes and some instant hot chocolate. Spreading it out in front of Clint, he made a grand gesture, saying, “The choice is yours.” 

Clint gawped as he took a minute to formulate a verbal response. “I take it all back. You’re totally making me feel better.” 

Taking the empty bowl, Bucky kissed his temple on his way past to the sink. “That’s what I’m here for. Oh, but if we’re going to end up cuddling on your crappy sofa, you’re showering first.” 

Sometime later, they’d managed to get through one of the movies, half of the pancakes, and the main storyline of LEGO Marvel Super Heroes (“Who the hell is Stan Lee?”); as he realised he was drifting off, still part-way through movie number two (“Toy Story? Really Bucky?”), Clint decided that Bucky wouldn’t mind too much at having a poorly boyfriend potentially drooling all over him – he wouldn’t have been there, otherwise. And, poorly or sick, Clint was glad he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "maybe one of them - most likely Clint - gets really sick. ADORABLE AWKWARD FLUFF?"
> 
> I have to credit my best friend (who I highly doubt will ever read this, but wth) for the whole poorly-not-ill thing - she totally inspired the answer to this prompt. And if being poorly is a British thing, then, um... *plays creative liberties card* ^_^


	19. Baby Steps

One of the hardest things about being with Bucky, Clint realised, was that he very rarely actually got to be with Bucky. Sure, they had their moments together – when the range was empty, sometimes in the gym, eating late lunches or later dinners, movie nights where Steve and whoever else left early because they weren’t such night birds – but they were few and far between, not to mention fleeting and somewhat restrained, never going beyond kissing and innocent, tentative touches. As a sniper, Clint knew the art of patience, but even sharpshooters had ends to their tethers. 

“I get it, I do,” he told Bucky the night he decided to finally say something. “Things were different back in your day, you couldn’t act in the open, or whatever. But you’ve seen the world change. You’ve changed with it. Is it so hard to just…” 

Bucky narrowed his eyes at him. “Just what?” he challenged. “You’re right, I saw the world change, but do you think I was allowed to agree with the changes that took place? That I even wanted to?” 

Clint blinked. “But…” 

“I was Russian, Clint. Pretty much Communist. If I ever had a preference as to whether I preferred kissing dames or guys, which one do you think they’d have let stay in my head? Assuming, of course, they would’ve even let me have an opinion on the matter.” 

Sighing, Clint scratched the back of his head. A small distance had opened up between them on the couch, a distance that had just moments ago been virtually non-existent. “But now you do, Bucky. And I don’t… You’ve managed to roll with everything else that’s ‘new’ to you. What’s stopping you with this? With us?” 

He swallowed, ducking his eyes. “Are we really an ‘us’?” 

“I want to be.” 

Bucky cursed softly, looking as if he was trying not to check the door over his shoulder. “You say you understand.” 

“You don’t think I do?” 

“That’s not my point.” Clint waited, and he continued. “Maybe… Maybe you do understand, but I don’t. I don’t understand how you’re so…” He gestured vaguely as he sought out the word. “Calm. Relaxed. So…” 

“Open?” Bucky nodded, and he smirked. “The phrase is ‘being out’,” he explained, offering his hand to the other man. Bucky blinked at it for a second before hesitantly reaching out with his own, and Clint held on gently. He stroked his thumb over Bucky’s knuckles, rough and defined from countless fights, trying to get him to relax just a fraction. “It wasn’t easy,” he admitted. “You always worry about how people will react – friends mostly, in my case. I kinda knew what Barney would do, so I held off for as long as I could there. He’s still a bit… Well, let’s just say he keeps his opinions to himself now, but he still has them. But, yeah, I was nervous. Thought maybe S.H.I.E.L.D would see it as a reason not to take me on. Know what, though? It was kind of like ripping off a band aid in the end. All that worry for just a second or two of discomfort. I’m glad I did it. You know these people now, Buck, they wouldn’t give a damn if you preferred dames or guys.” 

“Steve might.” 

“Bullshit. You’re talking about the man who did everything he could to make sure his best friend was included in S.H.I.E.L.D the moment he got you back. He argued against dozens of reasons for your exclusion from most of society; even if being gay was one of them it wouldn’t have stopped him.” 

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Okay, so you’re… out, or whatever, and everyone’s fine with that. But so are you. I’m –” He looked down at their hands, still fitted together between them. “I’ve got ninety years of ‘this is wrong’ screaming at me every time we… do stuff. How can I be… out outside if I’m not out inside? Or something like that, I don’t know.” 

Taking a few seconds to work out exactly what Bucky was saying, Clint huffed quietly and smiled. “Okay, so maybe I didn’t really understand as well as I thought,” he admitted. “But in answer to your question: we make you comfortable inside first, then work on making you comfortable ‘outside’.” 

“How?” Bucky asked warily. 

Leaning closer, Clint tightened his grip on Bucky’s hand. “Slowly,” he whispered, pressing their lips together chastely. “Or in one big go.” The next kiss was not so chaste, and he waited until he felt Bucky respond before dialling it down a bit. He pulled away with a final kiss to the back of his hand. “It’s your band aid, Bucky. You choose how fast to pull it off.” 

He was startled when Bucky laughed. “Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?” 

Clint shrugged. “I can be ridiculous sometimes.” 

The ex-assassin stared at their hands again, moving his thumb carefully across the back of Clint’s hand as if experimenting. “My pace, huh?” he mumbled. 

“Yeah. Can’t run before walking.” 

He nodded, then chewed his bottom lip. “When, uh… When I’m ready to… Can it be Steve first?” 

Grinning, Clint said, “You know I was already assuming that, right?” 

Bucky stared at him, then reached across with his free hand and smacked him lightly on the shoulder (as lightly as one could with a metal limb, anyway). “Ass.” Clint just laughed. “Can I kiss you?” 

Clint pulled him forward. “Don’t have to ask anymore, old man.” Against a grumble about being called an old man, he closed the distance again, but followed Bucky’s lead on the kiss. Though not as deep as he wanted, it lasted longer than he was expecting – a positive sign if ever there was one – and when it was over, they stayed as they were, with Bucky half-sprawled on top of him, their feet linked at the other end of the couch. 

It was Bucky who started up the conversation again – still cautiously, but Clint was pleased he wasn’t hiding away from the subject like he usually did with topics he wanted to avoid. “About being out.” 

“Coming out.” 

“What?” 

“Ripping the band aid off. It’s known as coming out.” 

“Okay then. About that.” 

“… Yeah?” 

“Can we not…” Bucky rubbed his head, eyes not quite meeting Clint’s. “I mean, I know how couples act with each other and everything, but… Stark and his girl, he’s very, uh –” 

“Do not use Tony Stark as a PDA role model.” 

“‘PDA’?” 

“Public Displays of Affection.” Clint rolled his eyes. “Seriously, am I gonna have to explain everything to you now? I thought you had Steve for that.” 

Bucky smiled as he dropped a kiss to Clint’s forehead. “It’s not Steve I want to be with.” Clint knew then that he’d wait as long as he had to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Culture Clashing between the two about being out and PDAs?"  
> Hope I got it okay... I have absolutely no idea what it's like to come out to people, so I tried my best to get the feelings around that at least a little bit in the right direction.


	20. Let the Silence In

Tuesday afternoons were boring. Villains seemed to devote the day to plotting their evil shenanigans, S.H.I.E.L.D decided to hold every kind of meeting anyone ranking Level 6 and above had to attend, and nothing decent was on television. The only saving grace to Clint’s day of boredom was that he now had Bucky to call up and demand he come and make things more enjoyable – usually after Bucky had finished whatever paperwork he had leftover, because he was a good little agent who didn’t make it his personal mission to keep the higher-ups on their toes. Clint’s secondary personal mission was to change that. 

On this particular Tuesday, though, Bucky wasn’t being much help; he wanted to watch an old film from the fifties Clint had no interest in, and none of his attempts to distract Bucky were working. Eventually he gave up, slumping against him in defeat and staring up at the ceiling as Fred Astaire tapped out yet another quirky little number. When the movie continued to fail at grabbing his interest, he turned his head slightly and said, “I’m gonna tune out until Happy-Go-Lucky there has reached his grand finale.” 

“Okay,” Bucky mumbled in response. 

Rolling his eyes, Clint reached up and slipped out his aids, sighing contentedly as the sound of cheesy music practically disappeared. Settling himself more pleasantly into Bucky’s side – the metal arm was far more comfortable that it should’ve been – he closed his eyes and let his mind wander, focusing on what he could feel rather than see or hear. It was nice to drop some of his senses like this for a while, to register only touch and not worry about anything else. That, and it gave his ears a rest; no matter how fitting Tony had made them, the aids could still be uncomfortable after prolonged periods. 

Bucky’s breaths came easily at his back, chest rising in a steady motion that only changed when he chuckled or sighed. In contrast, his metal arm was completely still, a hard line pressed into Clint’s shoulder that curled around his side. It became uncomfortable the more he focused on it, so he shifted himself until he could lie with his head in Bucky’s lap (a fast-growing favourite position). The arm moved slightly with him, settling across his waist after a quick brush to his ticklish spot, and Clint almost opened his eyes to see the smirk he knew would be brightening up Bucky’s face. As it was, the two of them stilled, the most relaxed statues to ever have existed, Clint reckoned. He wondered if it should disturb him that their ability to become immobile was born out of the need to kill or wound accurately, to remain undetected in even the faintest of shadows, but he brushed it aside in favour of the thought that it meant they were now that comfortable around each other they didn’t need to constantly be alert, that even after just a few weeks Bucky now meant safety, peace, and – 

Kisses. Clint barely registered the shift in Bucky’s position before warm lips met his, slow and easy, and most other things, such as coherent thought, briefly fell by the wayside. He distantly realised the film must have ended, and when Bucky eventually gave him some space to breathe he batted lazily at his face until he could sit up, opening his eyes to put his aids back in. To his surprise, Bucky’s hand went over them before he could do that, and he looked up questioningly. 

The look on the other man’s face was hopeful, if not a bit hesitant, and it took Clint a minute or two to realise what he was asking. He considered it carefully – having his aids out was all well and good, but it wasn’t something he was always happy doing around others. It cut him out of conversations, or meant he missed something going on in the background, like Thor eating a ridiculous peanut butter and various fruits sandwich (to Tony’s horror). With Bucky, it meant he wouldn’t be able to listen to him laugh, wouldn’t be able to mutter silly nothings to him without wondering if he’d said what he wanted to say, wouldn’t be able to hear that soft, happy sigh he let slip when he was truly at ease… 

Bucky squeezed his fingers, bringing him back to the present. He was smiling, and Clint wasn’t sure why, but then Bucky was leaning forward, hands curling around Clint’s neck as they kissed again, and as his eyes closed automatically Clint realised he was worrying too much. For now, it didn’t matter that he couldn’t say nonsense things, couldn’t hear Bucky laughing or coming out with odd little noises – it was all about the feel of his lips on Clint’s, the hot and cool sensations either side of his neck, the hard, lightly scarred planes of his muscles when Clint snuck his fingers inside his t-shirt. For the first time he could recall, Clint didn’t care that he was deaf in another’s presence. 

“You know,” he said later, when time had flown past in a sex-veiled blur (silent sex was new and not as bad as he'd first feared) and the need to talk had arisen, “I don’t normally keep the aids out that long around people unless they can sign.” 

Pulling his trousers back up, Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?” Clint nodded. “Then… I’m honoured, I guess.” 

“Can I ask why you wanted me to do it?” 

He thought about it for a moment, eventually shrugging and shaking his head. “Just seemed like a nice idea,” he said. “Felt good to do stuff in the quiet for once. And, uh…” Ducking his head, he grinned shyly. “That was the first time you’d taken them out in front of me.” 

Touched by the fact that it was as important a gesture to Bucky as it was to himself, Clint got up and stretched, relishing in the gentle complaint from his back and shoulders. “Yeah, well, maybe that just means I’m getting too used to having you around,” he joked. 

Bucky rolled his eyes. “I take it back – I liked it because I didn’t have to put up with your smart aleck shit.” 

Clint just smirked, stepping closer to kiss the corner of Bucky’s mouth. “Same thing again next week?” 

The answering smile was slow but delighted. “Yeah… sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "maybe the first time Bucky realized Clint was deaf or the first time Clint felt comfortable taking out his hearing aids around Bucky?"


	21. Reason Falls

It was quite a relief that nobody ordered a nuclear strike the second time New York was invaded by aliens. It might have helped that these intergalactic visitors weren’t so much threatening as they were irritating. 

“Haven’t we popped them all off by now?” Falcon complained, kicking out at what Tony had termed a Pufferblob (“They’re like blobs with legs that go spikey when you hit ‘em.”) as it tottered too close. It spiked up as it flew backwards, a comic little wail escaping its mouth. 

“Who knows?” Clint responded as they caught up with the rest of the team. “There were hundreds, and they’re small. Could easily have rolled under the sofa, if you get my drift.” 

“Captain Rogers and Winter Soldier are on their way,” Ms. Marvel said. “Got a message from Agent Coulson, too. He says the NYPD want to ask a few questions.” 

“Leave this one to me, ladies,” Iron Man said as sirens were heard down the road. 

“Last time we let you talk to the police you were nearly arrested,” Natasha reminded him. 

“I’ll talk to them,” Carol said as he opened his mouth to protest. “Cap can join me when he gets here.” 

Tony raised his hands. “Whatever you say, Lady-Cap.” She snorted. 

The police arrived then. As Carol left to handle the questions and Tony started to complain about something or other, Clint took a moment to appreciate the day. It wasn’t often they got to fight a relatively easy battle in such glorious weather, and he wasn’t as exhausted as he often ended up. Hot, yes, but today that was a given; the vibrant sky reflected off the glass of a nearby skyscraper under the sun, almost camouflaging the building. The tops of small trees twitched gently, encouraged by a faint breeze, and through the leaves he could make out the flashes of blue from the police cars, a deep contrast to the light – 

_“You have heart.”_

Clint froze, his breath jamming in his throat. The day suddenly seemed neither bright nor warm, but too blue and too green, and he wasn’t sure that he couldn’t feel something sharp pressed against his chest. The smooth, slick tone was stuck on a loop in his head, praising him, commanding him, asking him for secret after secret, making him break promise upon promise, turning him into something emotionless and calculating, as soulless as Selvig had insinuated. He relived again each arrow he’d fired, intending to damage, to hurt in the throes of a blind devotion he’d sworn never to let himself fall into, not after Chisholm – but there, in New York, struggling to get his breathing even and to stop seeing anything but painfully green grass and cosmic energy, the old fear that he was a failure slipped in and gripped him tight. 

“Clint?” 

Looking up, he saw Natasha ( _spinning away with his bow; he pulled out his knife_ ) watching him with concern. He blinked rapidly. 

“Hey Hawkass, what’s up?” 

“Tony, don’t.” 

“Is he okay?” 

“He’s having an anxiety attack Wilson, I wouldn’t call that okay.” Clint started as his bow was taken sharply from his hand. 

“Stark, what did I just say?” 

“Guys relax, I’ve been through this. I know what to do. Clint buddy? Talk to me.” 

Except he couldn’t talk; how the hell was he supposed to talk when he couldn’t even breathe, let alone get a single thought in through the sound of L- him in his head? Maybe he was still in his head. Clint could make out every frosted word, mingling and weaving with Tony’s until they became intelligible, and in that moment he thought his hearing was failing again and that couldn’t happen, not here, not now, he needed this team, he couldn’t stop gods and aliens on his own and what if the Tesseract was still inside him waiting to corrupt him to turn him against them again what if it was happening now – 

“Can it, Stark!” 

Still unseeing, Clint felt himself turned forcefully around and pushed into walking. He was about to resist until a hand gripped his upper arm firmly. A metal hand. Shaking, he allowed himself to be guided around a corner and placed on a low brick wall, two hands now holding his shoulders, one hard, one softer. 

“Look at me, Clint?” 

He grabbed onto a lungful of air. “Bucky –” 

“Shh, just look, okay?” 

Clint lifted his chin off his chest. Bucky was staring calmly at him, relaxed and patient. Faint sweat tracks were visible on his temples. His hair was dishevelled. His eyes were blue – but naturally blue, and beautiful, just a few shades paler than the sky. They were the kind of eyes that showed emotions as easily as they could hide them, eyes that promised safety and trust and love without glowing or swirling, and the longer Clint gazed into them the easier it was to breathe, to collect his thoughts and banish the voice that tried to cling to his inner ear… 

“We good now?” 

Sagging with a sigh, Clint nodded, feeling Bucky squeeze his shoulders once before letting go. “Thought I’d be over this already,” he muttered, covering his face with a trembling hand. 

“Loki?” Bucky asked quietly, and he mumbled an affirmative. “Who says you should be over that?” Before Clint could reply, he added, “It’s been seventy years and I’m still not completely over the war.” 

Surprised, Clint frowned at him. “Seriously?” 

“My nightmares aren’t all red stars and dead politicians.” He shrugged. “From what I gather though, that’s pretty standard for soldiers.” 

“I’m not a soldier.” 

“Is there really that much difference?” When Clint didn’t disagree, Bucky helped him to his feet and brushed a kiss to his temple. “Come on – let’s get back to the others.” 

“How long do I have until I have to talk about this?” he asked as they began walking. 

Bucky hummed thoughtfully. “I’ll give you until we get home.” Clint nodded, leaning against him for a moment. Before they rounded the corner, their fingers briefly slotted together, and Clint remembered someone telling him they trusted him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Clint has a memory relapse, which triggers an anxiety attack, and only bucky can help."
> 
> This was what I interpreted 'memory relapse' to mean, though I know the term's more associated with forgetting things. Sorry there's not a bit more on Bucky being helpful, but in my HC it's something they'd address in private. Also, I imagined Pufferblobs as adipose from Doctor Who that do what pufferfish do when they're unhappy X)


	22. FUBAR Protocol

Hissing through the pain, Clint tried once more to reach his quiver, fingers coming within an inch of the fletching on his arrows. He gave up after only a few seconds, crying out weakly as his side threatened to tear open further. His makeshift bandage wasn’t doing its job anymore, and he didn’t have the energy to fashion himself a new one. 

Resting his bow and remaining arrow across his lap, he wondered why their intelligence had failed to mention that the entire hotel was HYDRA-operated. It was something he could’ve done with knowing when trying to chat up the room attendant – and damn, she knew how to stick a knife in a guy. Looking over at her body, he contemplated tearing up her shirt to use for bandages instead of her scarf, but the shirt was red and he neither had the energy to waste nor the desire to see her paling skin. 

“Barton, med-evac’s on the way,” Coulson said over comms. “Maintain position until they reach you.” 

“Understood sir,” he replied, coughing at the end. The wound flared sharply in his side, and he clenched his bow as he tried to breathe through the sensation. 

“ETA fifteen minutes. Hang on until then.” 

He laughed harshly. “I’ll do my best.” Clint wanted to give Coulson a message for Bucky, who would’ve reached the station maybe half an hour ago, but his vision wavered at that point and he lost the opportunity as he tried to stay conscious. He began counting the minutes away, visualising sheep and kangaroos and anything else that bounced to keep his mind occupied, until a sound from down the hallway caught his attention. 

Two staff members were leaving the fire-escape stairwell. Though Clint couldn’t understand what they were saying, their sentences were sharp and quick, words overlapping as they argued over one another, and it was something of a small miracle that their backs were turned to him. He watched them stalk around the corner and out of sight, clenching his jaw to try and muffle another cough – then their conversation stopped suddenly. Clint frowned, quieting his breathing as much as he could and adjusting his grip on his bow. He had one arrow, and he wondered if hitting a light bulb or the fire extinguisher would be more effective than taking one of them out and not the other. It might give him a few more seconds to try again for his quiver – 

A dark figure darted round the corner, gun drawn, before Clint could finish his plan, and he instinctively raised the bow as best he could, holding his breath as he drew back the arrow a couple of inches. “Clint!” 

He blinked. The figure lowered the gun and rushed towards him. “Bucky?” 

Bucky stepped over the body of the woman who’d attacked Clint and crouched in front of him. “Shit,” he breathed, kohl-darkened eyes taking in the bloodied scarf. Reaching into a pouch at his waist, he said, “We’ve got ten minutes. Think you can walk?” 

“Ten… What?” 

“Here.” He thrust a hip flask and a packet of pills into Clint’s hand, then began unwrapping a roll of actual bandages. “They’ve set explosives in the upper floors. The entire hotel’s evacuating –” 

“So why’re you here?” Clint grunted. 

Bucky tied off the bandage, neatening it up before raising his eyes to Clint’s. “You have to ask?” Clint huffed, lips stretching into a weary smile as Bucky tapped his hand. “C’mon. Painkillers.” 

“You’re supposed to be on a train,” he complained once he’d swallowed small handful, unscrewing the flask. 

“So are you,” Bucky shot back, tying the quiver’s broken strap ends together and looping it over his own shoulder. 

The water was riddled with an electrolyte add-in, and Clint grimaced against the taste. “Coulson’ll be pissed,” he said. Bucky folded away his bow, then bent down and lifted Clint’s arm over his shoulders, hauling him carefully to his feet and keeping him close against his right side. Clint was about to protest against getting blood on his clothes, but a wave of dizziness started to mess with his ability to walk and he concentrated on making his legs work as Bucky guided him to the elevator. 

“I’m pissed too,” Bucky said once the descent began. “We’ve been staying in a death trap for two weeks and no-one told us. Sitwell’s excuse was ‘a mistranslation’ – he’s usually better than that. Then you get hurt, and they order me to fucking leave you behind when their own team won’t reach you quickly enough?” He shook his head, taught with anger. “You’d think they’d take better care of their ‘assets’,” he growled. 

“How’d you know?” Clint asked, swaying slightly on his feet. “’bout the explosives?” 

“Tuned in to the bug feed when you didn’t show,” Bucky muttered. He held out his handgun for Clint to take, pulling a second one out of his secondary holster. “The last of them’ll be in the lobby,” he said. “Pretty sure they’re armed and under orders to leave at the last minute. You gonna help me take them out?” Clint nodded, sucking in a breath and gripping the gun more securely. Bucky squeezed his hip. “Okay. Here we go.” 

It was over in a haze of gunfire, dulled pain, foreign shouts and falling bodies. Clint wasn’t sure how long they’d been in there, just that he was struggling to get a full breath in and Bucky was the only thing keeping him remotely upright. Their success didn’t make sense on a number of levels, but as a helicopter shadow loomed over them Clint decided working out how they’d done it could wait until his mind was clear. 

“Hey.” As his head began to droop, Bucky gave him a shake. It barely hurt. “Evac’s here, Clint, stay with us a little longer.” 

“Barnes,” a familiar voice in his ear said, hard and professional, “there’s room for you on the chopper. As soon as you’re back on home turf you and I are going to have a talk.” 

“Yes sir,” Bucky grit out. Clint’s sense of awareness wavered then – hands began touching various parts of him, prying him away from Bucky’s side and flipping his world sideways. When he next managed to drag his eyes open, he was lying down on the floor of the rising helicopter, shirt cut away at his wound, a needle in the back of his hand, breathing mask on his face. Fingers brushed his shoulder, and he tipped his head to see Bucky watching him anxiously. 

“You in trouble?” he mumbled. Bucky smiled and nodded. Clint closed his eyes. “Hate Luxembourg...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt(s): "Clint gets injured pretty badly on a mission with Bucky, who has to take care of his birdbrain while finishing out the mission.", "something like Clint/Bucky go against orders to rescue/save the other, advertising the true extent of the relationship/feelings to the rest of the team?"
> 
> Hope those of you who've seen CA: TWS caught my little Easter egg ;-) If you haven't seen it already, GO! GO AND ENJOY AND DROWN IN FEELS!!!


	23. Got Your Back

It started out as a joke, as a few upsets often do. As per usual, Tony Stark was the one to set the ball rolling over a late breakfast, where Clint found a few members of the team listening to him rant. “And once we’ve distracted them with Thor and his hypnotic flowing locks,” he said, explaining how best to get rid of an overzealous crowd of fans, “we can just wind up our Tin Soldier and send him in to scare them off.” 

“Who’s our Tin Soldier?” Jan asked. 

Everyone followed the direction of Tony’s fork, even Bucky – until he realised everyone was looking at him. “Me?” 

“Really, Stark?” Natasha asked with an eye roll. 

“Hey, it’s not like I’m saying he doesn’t have a heart. And I know he wasn’t a woodcutter before he got all frozen – actually, I bet you used an axe once, didn’t you? Please tell me they made you use an axe.” 

“Aren’t axes a bit unsubtle for super-secret-ghost-assassins?” Peter asked from the wall. 

“One would think,” Tony said, “but then so was destroying pretty much every four-wheeled vehicle in Washington. Someone must’ve wound you up hard for that.” 

Bucky blinked. “I –” 

“Seriously though, what did you have against those cars?” 

“I bet it’s ‘cause they weren’t Russian,” Bobbi quipped. 

Dropping down from where he was perched, Peter stood ramrod straight as he said, with an awful accent, “In Soviet Russia, cars no hit you – you hit cars!” 

Jan giggled before joining in. “In Soviet Russia, you don’t wear dresses – dresses wear you!” 

“In Soviet Russia, you no watch TV. TV watches you,” Bobbi said, smirking. 

“In Soviet Russia, you don’t lose memories, memories lose you.” 

Everyone gasped. “Stark, that was low!” Peter said. 

He looked smug nonetheless. “Maybe. In Soviet Russia, you don’t break the law. The law breaks you.” 

Natasha glowered at him from the bar. “This is a terrible joke and I may take drastic measures to stop it.” 

“… In Soviet Russia, you don’t kill spiders –” 

“Spiders go through every one your protected files, find all your drunken videos, and leak them onto YouTube with an encryption in a fictional language preventing you from taking them down.” 

“Natasha, no! Please don’t do that – I was only gonna say spiders kill you. I thought you’d appreciate!” 

Peter waved. “I did.” 

Clint watched the exchange with a slight smile on his lips. He was happy to just observe until he noticed that Bucky had disappeared from the dining room altogether. Wordlessly, he followed suit, checking the kitchen before finding him sat on a sofa in the lounge, head bowed, brow furrowed unhappily. It was a recognisable expression, and Clint felt a surge of sympathy (and guilt – he should have seen earlier, should have made the others stop). Entering the room slowly, he cleared his throat. “Hey.” 

Bucky looked up sharply, ducking his head again when he saw who it was. “Hey.” 

“You alright?” Clint asked, sitting down beside him. 

Blowing out a breath, he ran a hand through his hair. “I’m fine,” he mumbled, “it’s just…” 

“Still a bit fresh, huh?” Bucky nodded. “If it helps any, they did the same thing to me when they found out I’m deaf. Well, by ‘they’ I mean Tony I guess. He’ll lay off if you ask him. Or you can just get Pepper to… What?” 

Bucky was looking at him oddly. “You’re deaf?” 

Oh. “Uh, yeah.” 

“But… you can hear me…” 

Unable to help himself, Clint laughed. “Steve said the same thing,” he told him, twisting to show Bucky the small device tucked behind his ear. “There’re these things called hearing aids now. Can’t hear a thing when I take ‘em out, but they’re S.H.I.E.L.D’s best and I can’t imagine not having them. Of course, now Stark’s gotten it into his head that he can make better ones, so I they might be a bit bigger next time you see me with them in.” 

Still staring at him, Bucky licked his lips (which Clint tried very hard not to stare at in return), and hesitantly asked, “How’d it happen? If you don’t mind saying, I mean.” 

“Nah, it’s no biggie. It was actually my fault anyway – got myself surrounded, knew I was a goner if I didn’t do anything, so I let off a sonic arrow and ended up caught in the blast.” He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck as flickers of memories played at the back of his mind. “Stupid, really.” 

“I don’t know,” Bucky said softly. “Sounds like a do or die situation to me.” 

Now Clint did stare at him; the first time he told that story, the reactions had been “Why did you use a sonic?” or “How come you didn’t get out of the way?”, but Bucky’s words implied that he… understood. That he might even have done the same. In that moment, Clint felt himself fall a little more for the former assassin. 

“Did it hurt?” 

He thought about it. “A little.” 

Bucky laughed. “Now it’s you who sounds like Steve.” 

Feeling a sudden lift in his spirits, an idea sprang to Clint’s mind. “JARVIS?” he called, tilting his head back. “Who’s on the S.H.I.E.L.D range at the minute?” 

“The latest batch of trainee recruits, Agent Barton,” the AI answered. “There are seven in total, all being supervised by Agent Hill, but a few lanes are not currently being used.” 

“Perfect.” Grinning, Clint stood up. “Come on,” he said to Bucky, “let’s go.” 

“What?” Bucky said with a frown, even as he rose to his feet. 

“We’re going to the range.” 

“But the JARVIS said there were already people there.” 

Clint spun on his heel. “One, it’s just JARVIS, no ‘the’ necessary. Two, there are still some lanes open, which means three, we can go in and really test those new recruits.” 

A glint appeared faintly in Bucky’s eye as they began walking. “How?” 

He chuckled. “Trust me, man – if anything’s gonna lift your mood after that, then it’s the expression on seven trainee agents’ faces as you annihilate your target with a near-perfect score before they can even reload a clip.” Bucky grinned at the idea, and Clint wondered if they could make range visits a regular thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt(s): "Maybe the Avengers are getting more comfortable with Bucky being around, and someone jokes about his time as a brainwashed assassin and Clint sees it really upsets him so he like stands up for Bucky or something?", "Could you write Bucky finding out about Clint's hearing? Or maybe Clint isn't deaf yet and he loses it after he and Bucky are already together and they both have to adjust."
> 
> I apologise for this taking so long. My writing mojo took a holiday. (It's now slowly coming back, so keep prompting, by all means!)


	24. Archer's Initiative

There were, in total, six plastic bow-wielding figurines staring at him from behind the confines of their packaging. They were all undoubtedly creepy, particularly the ones that attempted to look more lifelike – and especially the one supposed to be him – and he couldn’t for the life of him think why they were now his. 

“It’s a joke, Sourpuss,” Stark said when Clint finally found a voice and asked the question. “We were all in on it. Well, the six of us, anyway.” 

“It was Tony’s idea,” Peter said quickly. 

“Yep. He’s right. All mine.” 

“You wanted to get him a life-sized model of himself,” Natasha reminded him dryly. 

Tony shrugged as Clint’s eyes bulged. “Wouldn’t have been a problem. I know people.” 

Shaking his head, Clint looked back at the (still creepy) toys. “So, who got who then?” 

Peter explained their joint-effort birthday present; “Tony got you Legolas, Natasha got you Merida, the Brave girl, Bruce got you Katniss, Steve got Robin Hood, Sam bought Green Arrow, and I got you. You’re welcome.” 

Picking up the boxed, plastic version of himself, Clint repressed a shiver at the not-quite-likeness in the doll’s too-white eyes. “Does Bucky know about this?” 

It was Steve who answered. “No. He’d already left for Laos by the time Tony came to us with the idea.” 

He nodded. “You all better hope he finds them as weird as I do,” was all he said. Tony, Natasha and Sam chuckled, smirked and grinned respectively; Steve, Peter and Bruce all looked rather nervous. 

Besides the archer figurines (“Your very own Archer’s Initiative!” according to Tony), everyone had gotten him regular birthday presents – things like a fletching kit from Natasha, a hawk adoption from Sam, a pair of custom-fitted purple shoes from Jan – and the day was going well, considering it was his first one on American soil in a while. It wasn’t totally perfect, though, and he was reflecting on one particularly big imperfection when Natasha found him towards the beginning of the evening. 

“You know he’d be here if he could,” she said, folding herself next to him on the couch. 

Looking up from the mug Bobbi had bought him (purple, with ‘I heart Coffee’ printed on the side), Clint tipped his head back and sighed. “Last time we spoke he said he’d be back tomorrow,” he told her. “Thought he’d at least try and call, though.” 

She poked him in the side. “Stop moping. Weren’t you in Kazakhstan for his birthday?” 

“Turkmenistan, and we both were, so it wasn’t so bad.” The day had been too hot, and they could barely interact without breaking cover – and crossing an entire market square – but they’d at least had half an hour between downing the target and extraction to celebrate. Bucky’s present, the most expensive bottle of whiskey Clint could find, had been bought in an airport store. 

“There’s probably a reason he couldn’t get in touch,” Natasha said gently. “You know how these missions are.” 

“Yeah,” he sighed. Looking back at his new mug, he then asked, “Will you help me pack all these up? Think I’ve had enough celebrating today.” 

She raised her eyebrows. “Already? Sure you don’t want to give it another few minutes?” 

“Nah,” he said as he stood. “I’m all birthday-ed out. ‘Sides, Bucky might’ve left a message.” 

Natasha rose as well, taking the mug from him with a soft look that said it was a pathetic excuse – which he knew; JARVIS had promised to alert him if Bucky called while he was on another floor – but one she was letting him get away with. “If you’re sure.” 

Ten minutes later, he was back in his and Bucky’s apartment, and immediately aware that something was different since he’d last been around. Listening hard, his eyes were drawn to the bedroom, where a faint rustling was heard, shortly followed by an under-the-breath cuss. He approached the room slowly, trying to work out who it could be, because JARVIS hadn’t said anything, which meant there could possibly be more – 

A long stream of Russian identified the intruder for him, and he burst into the room to find Bucky, ribs bandaged, chest, arm and face littered with bruises, struggling to get on a pair of jeans. His head snapped up as Clint entered, expression instantly turning sheepish, and after a glance at his torso he asked, “Give a wounded soldier a hand?” 

“You said you’d be back tomorrow,” Clint said once Bucky was half-dressed (Clint was making him forgo a shirt while he ‘catalogued’ his injuries). 

Getting more comfortable on the bed, Bucky gave him an apologetic smile. “Wanted to surprise you,” he admitted. “Didn’t count on busted ribs and a late flight.” 

Clint brushed his fingers over the edge of the bandages. “Did the others know you were coming back early?” 

“Just Tasha and JARVIS.” 

He narrowed his eyes at the ceiling. “I feel betrayed, JARVIS.” 

“I apologise, Agent Barton. That was never the intended outcome.” 

“Shut up, JARVIS. It was mine and Tasha’s idea, Clint, he was just our unwitting accomplice.” Clint grumbled, and Bucky whacked his side ineffectively. “Hey – present time. You’ll have to get it, though; it’s in my bag. White envelope with your name on it.” 

Pulling out said envelope, Clint returned to the bed, curiosity writ on his face. Inside was a card to a shooting range in New York, along with a letter congratulating Francis Barnes on his new membership. “You got me membership with a city range?” 

Nodding, Bucky sat up to explain (failing to hide a grimace at the movement). “I thought it might be nice to sometimes get away from all this. I know the Tower has Stark’s unbeatable designs and a personal supercomputer to answer to your every whim, but if you feel like it, you can go to a place where you’re not a secret agent or a costumed hero – you’re just a regular civilian who likes to practise archery. And, I dunno, maybe I’m your ex-army boyfriend who comes along for the show sometimes…” Trailing off, he scratched the back of his head. “It’s not great, I know, but I couldn’t –” 

“Francis Barnes?” 

He chuckled. “It was the first thing I came up with. Uh, sorry.” 

Gift still in hand, Clint leaned over and kissed him deeply, pulling away earlier than he liked only because Bucky was injured. “Don’t be,” he whispered, thumb ghosting over a bruise as he cupped his jaw. “It’s awesome. Thank you, Buck.” 

Bucky smiled as Clint kissed him again. “Anytime,” he said. Clint slipped the membership card back into the envelope. “So – what else did you get?” 

Later, with Bucky dozing against his side, Clint glared at the Hawkeye figurine now snugly ‘embraced’ by Bucky Bear and plotted how he was going to make Stark and the others pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "CLint's birthday? (a bit late considering it's was june 18)"


	25. On the Line

The silence buzzed in his ear as Clint stared at Maria Hill, wondering if he’d heard her correctly. She, in turn, watched him steadily, waiting for a response. He cleared his throat. “You want me to – what?” 

Sighing, Hill rubbed her forehead. “The board would like you to bring your relationship with Agent Barnes to an end in order for him to fully excel in the new position we’re offering him. Apparently, some members believe that you’re… ‘restricting’ his potential.” 

Clint blinked at her, jaw open. “That’s bullshit,” he said. 

“Agent Barton –” 

“You’re seriously telling me to do this?” 

“It’s not personal –” 

“Telling me I’m a restriction on my partner’s career progression? That’s pretty fucking personal, Hill!” 

“Barton!” she barked, eyes blazing, and he closed his mouth. “The board has made their decision – Barnes won’t get this leadership role while the two of you are still together. It’ll go to one of the other candidates, none of whom come close to his records. I’m sorry to be the one telling you this, truly, but if you want Barnes to succeed in S.H.I.E.L.D –” 

“You don’t know him very well, do you?” Hill frowned, and Clint stood up. “Our relationship is worth more to him than the job, Hill. Especially if these are the terms.” 

“They’ll approach him as well,” she warned him as he took his leave. He didn’t answer her, fuming all the way home with the audacity of the board’s request (what board? And who the hell was even on it?). 

It was on that journey, however, that the real meaning of her words started to sink in; this wasn’t a one-time ask. Whoever wanted to promote Bucky wanted to promote him badly and believed Clint was in the way, and not only were they going to try and get him to agree to this farce, they were going to try and make Bucky agree to it, too. And, S.H.I.E.L.D being S.H.I.E.L.D, they likely wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. He didn’t know why he was so surprised, really. He’d been a burden to most people in his life: his father, his brother, Duquesne and Chisholm, even the Avengers sometimes. After all, he was just a guy with a bow and arrow trying to keep pace with power-laden supers and gun-wielding spies. It was only a matter of time before someone brought him down to a more appropriate level. 

What hurt a little more was the idea that he was, indeed, holding Bucky back. From the minute he’d appeared in the twenty-first century, Bucky had had it tough – he’d had to deal with the knowledge of what he’d been forced to do by the Russians, then prove himself to Fury, then deal with the scrutiny and pressure from other agents who still believed him to be untrustworthy. All of this, while coming to terms with the new century, how it judged his preferences and how he was allowed to act on them… The last thing he needed after overcoming all of that, Clint concluded, was an archer trying to punch above his weight and dragging Bucky down with him. 

When he finally stepped through the door to the apartment, the weight of his decision hung heavy around his neck, squeezing a little tighter when he took in the sight of Bucky sprawled easily on the couch, book in hand, iPod playing a gentle swing tune out loud that was making him tap his foot in time with the rhythm. “You know, I didn’t go there often, but I don’t remember Sweden being particularly exciting,” he said as Clint closed the door. 

“What?” 

He waved the book: _The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo_. “May recommended it. Wasn’t sure I’d like it, but it’s pretty cool. Think even you’d…” Trailing off as he looked round, his mouth crooked in a sympathetic smile. “Bad day?” 

Clint didn’t even care that it was obvious – he was already beginning to feel guilty. Part of him knew he shouldn’t be, that really he should be angry at Hill and this mystery ‘board’, but as he slumped into the space on the couch Bucky made for him all he felt was a sense of inevitable defeat. “Hill called me in today,” he began in a monotone. “She told me you were getting promoted.” 

Next to him, Bucky released a slow sigh. “Yeah,” he said, “I had the same talk from Hand.” 

Something clenched in his chest, and he swallowed it down. “I’ll go move my stuff out,” he said, getting up quickly and hurrying to their room. Once he’d closed the door, he yanked out his hearing aids, blinking tears away from his eyes, and set about packing his clothes into a duffel bag. One draw of underwear and half a draw of t-shirts later, something in the corner of his eye made him stop; Bucky leant against the doorframe, watching him move with his arms folded over his chest, and when they made eye contact he straightened up slowly. 

_You’re an idiot._

Surprised, and mildly confused, Clint watched as Bucky went to his duffel bag and began unpacking all the clothes he’d stuffed into it. Catching him staring, Bucky tapped his ear, and Clint slipped his aids back in with just a little reluctance. “I told Hand she could offer me the Seven Wonders of the World and enough money to bump Tony Stark down the billionaires list and I still wouldn’t break up with you.” 

“You… You did?” 

“Of course I did.” 

“Why?” 

Throwing the last t-shirt onto the bed, Bucky came round to stand directly before him. With no finesse whatsoever, he pulled Clint into a firm kiss, ending it as soon as Clint processed what was happening. “That’s why,” he snapped, his grip either side of Clint’s neck tight. “Next time you want to make a decision for me, how about talking to me first?” He let go, leaving Clint stood – a little dumbstruck – at the foot of the bed as he made for the door. “And don’t ever doubt your importance to me again.” 

Alone, Clint finished what Bucky had started, and eventually dropped the empty duffel bag in its usual space. By that time, he’d worked out what it all meant: Bucky had turned down the promotion. Bucky valued their relationship more than he did his job. He had been right all along. With a groan, he dropped his forehead against the wall, realising he was the idiot Bucky said he was and already thinking of ways he’d have to make it up to him. Sex, he decided. And buying pizza take-outs for an entire month.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Could you write a chapter, where Clint is asked to break up with Bucky, so that Bucky can accept a leadership position? Some may think that he is held back by Clint. Of course Bucky does not accept, he knows the truth ;)"


	26. Jigsaw

Clint had been warned that it was bad. He hadn’t, in all honesty, expected this. 

Bucky saw him enter the medical bay, and instantly angled himself away. He was lying on the bed, shirtless, pale-skinned and visibly sweating. Minor cuts and larger bruises dotted his torso, his trousers were ripped and dirt-streaked; in fact, the ‘bad’ wasn’t obvious until Clint drew close enough to see his other side, and then it was all he could do not to stare. “Hey,” he said, guiding Bucky’s face back towards him. “You okay?” 

Swallowing, Bucky gave a slight half-shrug. “For the moment,” he mumbled, the barest of tremors in his voice. 

“What happened?” Clint stroked his thumb over Bucky’s cheek, hoping to ease his tension. Bucky still wouldn’t meet his eyes, though. 

“Place collapsed. I got stuck; my arm…” He trailed off, but it was easy to fill in the rest. Bucky’s arm had been trapped – crushed, maybe – and had to be taken off. Running his gaze over what was left, Clint deduced that it was never meant to be removed. He also guessed it hurt. A lot. 

“You sure you’re okay?” 

“I’m fine.” 

“Bucky, you can have some painkillers if –” 

“No, I don’t need them.” 

“I think you do –” 

“I don’t want them, no drugs, Clint!” 

“Okay, okay,” Clint soothed, sneaking another glance at Bucky’s shoulder. “But it looks painful, Buck.” The metal was dented and scraped at the edge, wires and gears exposed and mangled in their own way. Some were still twitching, trying to move something that wasn’t there and getting stuck with others that wouldn’t budge. What drew Clint’s eye more, though, was the flash of red a few inches from the opening. “And I don’t like seeing you in pain.” 

“It’s not so bad.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“It’s metal, Clint, it’s not like I can feel –” 

“Fine!” he snapped. Bucky flinched, and Clint sighed, turning his attention to the rest of Bucky’s injuries. “These been treated?” he asked quietly, ghosting his fingers over the nearest purple blemish. 

Bucky took a slow breath in and out before admitting, “May need something for my ribs.” 

“I can arrange that in a minute,” a new voice said, and Tony Stark strode in, tablet in hand. “Right now I wanna get a proper look at this, and you won’t be half as helpful doped up on painkillers, Barnes.” 

“No painkillers,” Bucky mumbled, but he kept his gaze fixed resolutely on the ceiling as Tony bent down to inspect his left shoulder. 

“You can fix it?” Clint asked, hoping to bring something positive to the atmosphere. 

Tony sniffed. “Yes.” He pulled a light out of his pocket and shone it into the metalwork. 

His answer unsettled Clint – it was far too short coming from him. “But…?” 

With a sigh, Tony straightened. “It won’t be easy,” he said bluntly, “nor will it be quick, and likely painful.” He gestured to the remaining metal covering Bucky’s shoulder. “The thing was never meant to come off – it’s wired in to you, practically welded to what was left of your muscles and nerves. The remainder of your arm is actually still in there, and it stops about here.” With the edge of his hand he indicated to a point two inches from the end of the battered metal. “You’re lucky, Barnes. Had I cut a little higher we’d be in a much more problematic situation. So, options: option number one is that I try to rebuild what’s missing and stick it on the end of what you still have. It would function, though to what extent I can’t say. Option number two is a little more tricky but would have the best outcome – we fly in some experts, see about removing the rest of the casing with as minimal damage as possible, then get you kitted out with a brand new model, as built by yours truly. I’ve already come up with a few designs, all of them fully detachable and independent of your musculature and nervous system. Theoretically.” 

One look at Bucky’s face, and Clint knew this was all a little too much. “Can you give him some time to think about it?” 

“Of course,” Tony said, giving Bucky a genuine smile. “Take all the time you need, Robocop.” 

After Tony left, a nurse came in to tend to Bucky, and once she’d handed Clint a pack of heavy-duty painkillers the two of them went home. Clint hated seeing how unbalanced Bucky appeared without his arm, how self-conscious he suddenly became. It was like watching him come back from being the Winter Soldier all over again. 

“Take the pills, Buck,” he said later, watching him tense up as he tried to get comfortable on the bed. “Just one, at least. Please? It’s co-codamol, you know the effects –” 

“Okay.” It was a terse response, but Clint took it, and had the pill and water ready for Bucky to take. 

“Make a decision in the morning,” he suggested once they were both settled. “It’ll be easier then.” 

“Can’t I make one now?” Bucky grumbled. 

“You could, and I couldn’t stop you, but I don’t think this is something you should rush, you know? We’re talking about an entire part of you, Bucky, and there are a lot of angles to consider.” 

“I know,” he sighed, glancing down at the roughly covered remains. “I just don’t like feeling… like this. You shouldn’t have to…” 

Repressing the urge to sigh, Clint leaned over him carefully to press a gentle kiss to the top of the shoulder plate, then another against the scarred seam and a third on Bucky’s lips. “Remember the day I lost my aids and we hadn’t been able to talk to one another? And I spent most of the day sulking because I felt like a freak? Broken?” 

Bucky nodded, his hand drifting up to rest around Clint’s side. The bare hint of a smile played at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not a freak.” 

“Neither are you.” Clint grinned at him. “We’re heroes.” 

“Yeah,” he murmured in reluctant agreement. He blinked heavily, the drugs starting to kick in, and Clint dropped one more kiss to his forehead before settling back into bed. 

“Also,” he added, “I bet there’s a little kid out there with a prosthetic arm who wants to be as cool as you when he or she grows up.” 

Without opening his eyes, Bucky replied sleepily, “Guess you’re not my number one fan anymore.” 

Clint chuckled. “Guess not.” If it made Bucky feel better, he could live with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I was wondering if maybe you could make a chapter were Clint sees Bucky with out the arm because it malfunctions or gets broken to the point of coming off in a fight?"

**Author's Note:**

> No more prompts! At least, not for this. I have twenty-nine now, so the fic is (theoretically) complete!! But please, don't let this stop you from prompting me for anything Winterhawk - or otherwise (just ask if you're not sure) - 'cause I'll happily do standalone pieces or smaller drabbles like the ones in [Little Moments](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1688342/chapters/3590801). Thanks to all who have prompted and contributed to this story, it wouldn't be much without you, and to everyone who's been patient and kept along with it: the end is nigh! D:
> 
> Update, 3rd July 2015: I have not forgotten this story - it's just a little lower down on my priorities list than others. So don't worry, the end is coming, it just might be a little while yet. Very sorry, but I promise this will end one day!


End file.
